


Public Enemies book Two

by roxymissrose



Series: public enemies [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abusive Relationship, Dubious Consent, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence, Rape/Non-con Elements
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-08-08
Updated: 2016-09-22
Packaged: 2017-10-22 09:06:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 8
Words: 41,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/236401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roxymissrose/pseuds/roxymissrose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>a 1920s AU *very* loosely based on the film, Public Enemy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. part one

Dean was leaning against the pool room wall, cigarette propped up on his lip, blowing spirals of smoke at the social club's grimy ceiling. He was killing time, watching the mugs lounging around, slap-punch play fighting, arguing with each other over lazy games of pool. Bill Boggs was nowhere to be seen, the fucking chump. The boy had almost given up on picking up a job--was racking his brain, trying to figure where he and Sam were going to cop a meal that night. There was a bit of commotion at the front of the club. Dean looked back to see Boggy come in, limping and wincing with every step, looking at nobody, and nobody looking at him. He had a black eye, thick and winced shut, and seemed to be favoring both his legs and his hip. He was cursing, loud and inventive, when he caught sight of Dean and jerked to a stop. Dean caught a glare that staggered him--the _venom_ in that one-eyed stare. Why the hell Boggs was giving _him_ the stink-eye made no sense—he'd done everything the two-legged weasel wanted. Nevertheless, Boggy seemed damn steamed. Enough that Dean was pretty darn nervous when he got the order to take his scrawny, ugly, trouble-making ass over to Assasi's—right away. Boggy just turned his back on him, left him empty handed and pretty fucking worried this was the rat's way of double-crossing him. "Uhm…Boggy…"

"What the devil are you still doin' here? G'wan before I…get outa here, before Mr. A comes looking for you personal."

It was the thin veneer of "gentleman" dropped from his speech and the _way_ Boggs said it that made the hair on Dean's neck stand up, and he took off like a shot. Something was up and he could only hope that he wasn't being set up. Not like Boggy had a use for him, he had another daisy in his bed and Dean was just glad it wasn't him and up until today, Boggs hadn't seemed like he was looking to clear house like he had with Albert and Percy, poor fucks….

* ** * * * 

Dean made it there in record time, sweat making his shirt and coat wet, and barely knocked on the door before Louie was pulling it open, and grinning at him, with both sides of his mouth and that startled Dean almost as much as the hate that'd replaced desire in Boggy's weasily eyes.

"Hey, Dean-o, ya made good time." He scrubbed a blood-stained handkerchief around his big hands—jerked his chin towards the alleyway. "Boss is waiting inna garage. He's got some news you might wanna hear."

 _Fuck!_ Dean looked at Louie askance, wondering if this was it, if he was walking his own last mile. After all, just because someone was nice to you on a Monday didn't mean they wouldn't shoot your eye out on a Tuesday. His eyes tightened and pricked with a sudden sharp flush of tears. His chest tightened until the breath died in his throat. He was terrified but not for himself. Maybe this had something to do with that crazy shit Sam was spouting—Assasi was going to kill him for Sam's stupidity, for his belief that anyone anywhere would do a fuckin' thing for them when Dean knew the best you could hope for was not be dropped in the river with a coupla cinderblocks tied around your neck.

His horror notched up when he realized it was just him going to the mob boss's place. What if Assasi was just planning on ice'n him alone? What then? How was Sam going to make it without him? How would he live, who would make sure his baby brother wasn't hurt, left defenseless for fuckers like Boggs…Dean took in a deep shuddering breath. If he was dancing his last dance, then he could at least meet his fate like a Winchester. He drew back his shoulders and held up his head and followed an oblivious Louie.

* ** * * * 

  


Mr. A looked up when Louie knocked on the door frame. The light coming through the high, narrow window in the garage threw weird shadows across his face as he moved past the open hood of one of his cars, that pretty green Duesy, Dean couldn't help but note. He looked at Assasi and shuddered, remembered being told a story about the Grey Man, who was made of fog and the wanting to hurt...and then Mr. Assasi was looking down on him and Dean fell into his whiskey colored eyes and his honey smooth voice and his beautiful ivory hands came down on Dean's shoulders. " _Raggazo,_ I hear you don't like living in Bill's basement no more."

Dean wasn't sure what to say, what Mr. Assasi wanted to hear. If he said the wrong thing, would it be curtains for him?

"Don't worry, it's just you and me talkin'," Assasi smiled at him, and shook his head. For a breathless moment Dean wondered if Assasi could read him that easily. "Listen, you worried about Boggs? Well, screw that mick—" Dean jerked, but wisely kept his mouth shut, and Assasi went on, "you don't owe him nothing, see. I gotta place for you and yer little Sammy…it ain't much but it's time someone was living in it, yeah. The last tenant got in over his head an' I had to…" Assasi shrugged. "Eh--evict him." Mr. A winked and Dean figured that last tenant got evicted like Boggs' worn out daisies got evicted.

"Now, this ain't just a deal for you, raggazo, I ain't that nice a guy." Assasi eased lean hips back against the car's fender and hooked thumbs through his suspenders. "The way I see it, I don't have to hire no one else to watch my cars if you're livin' here, right? You keep on doin' what you been, with the keeping 'em in good shape, right? So. Place is up there." He jerked his chin upwards towards the coach house's loft. "Go get your things, collect that little brother of yours—you guys are moving up in the world."

* ** * * * 

  


They stood quietly in the alley between the townhouses, their bags stuffed with what pitiful little they had to carry—mostly books in Sam's bag, mostly Sam's clothes in Dean's.

Louie met them in the alley, his heavy shoulders almost blocking the light in the gap. He brushed his lapels, winked, and grinned at them in a burlesque show-uncle kind of way and Sam gave him a wide smile right back, his hazel eyes snapping with excitement. Louie shook his head and laughed. "Kid. C'mon, then—youse guys follow me," he said and led them through the alley into the courtyard and then up a narrow stairway at the back of the garage. The two boys hung back on the narrow landing, giving Louie space enough to unlock the door. He did it with a flourish, using an old-fashioned iron key—the tumblers in the lock clicked loudly in the near silence. With a hammy little half-bow, he pushed it open.  
Sam stopped short and Dean piled into him, they both stood open-mouthed, their bags dropping unnoticed to the boards.

The apartment was…clean. Bright, so bright. It smelled a bit of dust and disuse but that was a wonderful change from wet and mildew. The bright light fell on a small kitchen and sitting room. Louie pointed out the two bedrooms, tiny, smaller than the bedroom they'd shared in John Winchester's squat but warm, clean, and the beds were bigger and softer looking than what they'd been used to. Sam excitedly pointed out the narrow dressers for their clothes, hooks for coats and hats…each bedroom had a window, and shutters to close over them.

Louie waited until they'd finished exclaiming over the miracle of beds with thick mattresses and then, when their eyes were on him again, he opened a final door and behind it, a bathroom. They nearly knocked each other down trying to get in the door.

Sunlight poured in through a small frosted glass window. The room had it all--a toilet, a sink. A tub. Sam pointed out the shower head, the unspotted mirror over the sink. White and green tile, trimmed with black, gleamed on the wall, the floor. And clean, all of it so clean. Dean swallowed hard.

"Gosh," Sam said, his voice faint with thrilled shock. "Gosh…"

Dean reached out and took Sam's hand, and when their fingers touched, he almost cried. He asked Louie, "All this for us?" and the fat man nodded, a soft look in his eyes.

Dean felt his stomach sink; a chill crawled up his spine. If this was all for them, then what was the price…and how could he convince Assasi to take it only from him?

Louie's face was crinkled with smiles, nothing hard or cruel there. He seemed to genuinely be enjoying their awe. "Yep. All yours, buddy. 'Course, you gonna have to work for it."

There it was, Dean thought. No surprise there--hell, first lesson ever, nothing came for free. He licked his lips…Boggs hadn't been…bad. It hadn't hurt, not much. And for Sam, this was…this was worth it. Hell, it was worth _more._ He opened his mouth to ask Louie if they could go somewhere that was not this wonderful, magic, place but Louie had already turned to go down the stairs.

"Mr. A says alla cars're in your charge now. That's your new job. Take care of 'em, keep 'em clean like Mr. A likes, keep 'em tuned and ready to peel out on a dime…you gotta lot to learn Dean-o. And your brother. School, that's your job, Puddy boy. All right, youse get settled, get some shut-eye--tomorrow, you start payback."

They watched the fat man negotiate the narrow stair and then Sam turned to Dean, his eyes dancing. "Dean--this is a--a miracle. It's a sign, hunh? Things are gonna start looking up for us, now, right?"

Dean swallowed. "Sure they are, Sam. Signs and miracles, that's what this here is."

  


[ ](http://pics.livejournal.com/roxymissrose/pic/000caq31/)

  


When morning came, Dean rose quietly so as not to wake Sammy, and tiptoed down the flight of stairs to the garage. Mr. Assasi was already waiting for Dean at the garage door, standing half in the shadow. Dean walked towards him and Assasi watched him come, his head tilted to the side, his eyes giving nothing away. Dean stopped in front of him, licked his lips. His throat clicked when he swallowed and he cursed himself for being nervous…this was nothing new to him. He let his knees unlock, began to drift down and Mr. Assasi's hand wrapped around his shoulder and squeezed—hard. Dean froze. He had no hint what was coming, but he'd be damned if he'd punk out in front of the man. Dean worked up a cocky sneer and stared up into Assasi's eyes.

"Ah, ragazzo, I don’t need nothing like that. I don't take payment like that, ever. And you ain't ever doin' nothing out of your free will again, you hear? Anything you give to me, you give it freely. Right?"

Dean nodded.

"Not good enough," Assasi said. "Say it so's I know you heard me…"

Dean stared into Mr. Assasi's eyes, whiskey colored eyes that seemed to suck all the air out of Dean's lungs. He felt the whisper of something inside, maybe the beginning of devotion, something he'd only held for Sam before this…"Anything I give you, I give freely…" his heart burned, his eyes burned. He'd never been treated with anything like respect before. Assasi stared down at him solemnly, as if he valued what Dean said, what he offered. It felt…good.

"I know you got one thing on your mind alla time, your brother. That's good." He slipped cool, elegant fingers into the soft part under Dean's chin, and lifted his head. "You take care of Sam. You keep him safe. You keep him close."

Dean swallowed and tried to nod, and Mr. Assasi dropped his chin with a chuckle. He jerked his own towards the little apartment. "Go tell the angel you're okay before he explodes." He walked away, still chuckling and Dean turned to catch Sam staring at him with a thunderously dark expression. He held his hands out to Sam and said, "He told me to take care of you."

Sam's face lightened at that. "Told you, told you this was a good idea. Come on back upstairs—there's good milk in the icebox!"

  
[](http://pics.livejournal.com/roxymissrose/pic/000caq31/)   
  



	2. Chapter 2

Dean pushed the washcloth around the sink bowl, drying it. Even months later, he still couldn't believe that this luxury, this having their very own bathroom right there for them, was real. Every time he filled the tub for Sam, every time he stood at the mirror and brushed his teeth, he thought what a prize, what a dream…every time they woke up, in _their_ bedroom, in their very own clean, soft, good-smelling, bed, every time Dean made them breakfast in their very own kitchen, it felt like they'd hit the jackpot, the ultimate jackpot. The apartment, carved out of a bit of attic space over the garage, was warmer and cleaner than any place they'd ever been. Maybe a tiny mouse-hole to Mr. Assasi but it was a fuckin' castle as far as him and Sam were concerned.

Dean ran his fingers through his hair, smoothing it into some kind of order—tried out a smile or two in the mirror. This, their very own place. Sam had done good, no denying that. In this new place Sam bloomed. He was happy, he was well, and Dean was pleased. There was no darkness lurking in the corner of Sam's smiles now, just…content. And Dean was happy to give him that.

Hell, if Dad knew what the fuck was going on, who was taking care of them, he'd probably kill them both, Dean thought, and choked on a laugh that burned.

As if by magic, Sam appeared at his side, frowning. "What's wrong? You okay?"

"Yeah, jeez, Squirt. Whataya, hide behind the door? Don’t do that, you might hear something you don't like," Dean grinned and Sam blushed.

"I doubt that," he muttered and leaned against the sink, close enough to bump Dean's hip with his. He stared at Dean, until Dean sighed, and leaned towards him. Sam grabbed a handful of hair and carefully pulled him close to kiss him.

"Now can I have some privacy?" he asked.

Sam snickered. "Shut up, you don't even know what that means. Will you drive me to school? A won't mind if you take a car."

He flicked water into Sam's face. "Show some respect, hunh? _Mr._ A's not gonna let me take a car to drive your sorry ass to school."

"He'd let you do anything you want," Sam said darkly, and there was that, the single big fly in the ointment that kept Sam from being totally happy. Jealousy of the man….

"Sam, he loves you, tell him you need me to drive you." Dean stepped out of the bathroom and dressed, sliding suspenders over his shoulders, smoothing down the ridiculously soft white shirt. He leaned over to do up the laces of his boots and Sam threw himself over Dean's back, ignoring Dean's pained grunt and his snarled 'get off.' Sam played with the ends of his hair, until Dean managed to shake him loose. He tossed Sam his school bag, and stopped at the doorway. "Say, tell him you're scared of bullies or somethin'," he said. "You can come up with a reason, you’re good at that."

Sam shrugged the strap over his shoulder, and then grinned at Dean, his hazel eyes full of the sunlight streaming in through the doorway. His cheeks were pink, his teeth bright white and his hair was the color of old, old pennies. Dean thought he was beautiful, the most beautiful thing in the world. Sam just kept smiling at him, the pink of his cheeks went darker, and he dropped his eyes. "You think so, do you really think I'm good at thinking things up?"

"You're the best, Sammy, you're the smart one—I'm the muscle." He made an exaggerated muscle-man pose and Sam broke into delighted laughter.

* * * * * * 

The new school was different. All boys, all in uniform and Sam liked that. He liked that no girls were around for the boys to compete over—Sam was always left behind when it came to girls. He didn't mind the girls so much—it was being reminded that he was short and fat and ugly that upset him. Not that Dean ever seemed to mind, he always acted like Sam was…special. Like he was something good and Sam measured everything he was against Dean.

Sam walked through the arched hallways of the school, his boots echoing on the granite floor. Dean was his everything, Dean was his sun…but Assasi's was Dean's. Sam hated how he looked at Mr. A, like he was so special. Dean didn't get that it wasn't Assasi who saved them, it was Sam. Didn't matter, one day Dean would understand. And then. Then Dean was going to be his like John had said he was. The only real, true thing the man had ever said.

"Hey, Samuel, are you coming after school today? We're going to race boats on the lake. Can you get away?"

Sam thought sure, he could. But…"Let me ask my brother when he comes to get me. I have to make sure it's okay with my guardian."

"Okay, hope he lets you come."

It was odd to have friends, but it made Dean happy so he cultivated them. Mr. A said it was a smart thing to do. Make contacts, someday they'd come in useful. Sam had no idea how useful it was to know Freddy Smith, or to know that he craved Sweet Dots like a junkie craved horse but hey…he was willing to believe that Assasi knew what he was talking about—he had all the paper between the Shadows and the lower Eastside, any part Big Moe Kennedy hadn't been able to hold onto and sooner or later A was going to sweep his way up the whole Eastside and wipe out all of Big Moe's holdings, so yeah, he probably knew what he was talking about.

Sam flew out of school at the end of the day and there was his brother in the car lane, leaning against one of Mr. A's cars, tall and straight and movie star handsome and smiling right at Sam. At seventeen, he was less ribby than he'd been and not so pale, his eyes weren't the huge, half-scared green pools they had been a few years ago. Now, he was…Sam's heart clenched hard, and his breath hitched. His brother was more than handsome, he was beautiful, like an _angel_ beautiful. Sam let himself look as long as he dared and then, took a deep breath.

"It's about time you got here, you jerk!" Sam yelled. "I had ta walk aroun'a whole school waiting for ya like some kinda moron."

"Shut up," Dean frowned, his smile melting away fast as ice on a hot skillet. "An' what'd I tell ya 'bout speakin' right?"

"Fuck you. Very much, Dean. And pray tell good sir, how was your day? One hopes it was salubrious," he said, barely stumbling over the word and sketching a stiff little bow.

Dean laughed softly and rubbed his hand through Sam's carefully brilliantened hair. "Aw, Squirt, you sure do talk pretty."

"You're an ass," Sam shot back, but he grinned as he said it, patting his hair back into place.

"Hey, we gotta get you some more uniforms, boy. Look at them pants, you're practically sailing in the breeze—look like you're dressed for clammin'."

Sam looked down and frowned. They had seemed a little big when he put them on, but he'd tightened his belt and forgot about it and now that Dean mentioned it, his ankles were pretty plainly visible.

Dean smiled at him. "You're growing up, Squirt, turning into a regular beanpole. You'll be eye to eye with me before long."

Sam laughed out loud at that. He doubted he'd ever be as tall as Dean but…he shrugged. "Guess I'm getting a little taller, yeah."

"But not as tall as me."

"No Dean, never as tall as you."

 

[ ](http://pics.livejournal.com/roxymissrose/pic/000caq31/)

 

Prison. The city cringed away from where it sat, high on a hill, looming over the road leading to it. The road was narrow, and felt one-way. Trees flanked either side of it, kept what weak sun there was from lighting the way.

It was raining, had been steadily all that day, a weak, filmy wash staining the sky grey, putting an oily sheen on the road. Rain ran in rivulets down the car windows, breaking the scenery into streaks and dashes of grey and green. The glass was cold, and leached all the warmth out of Dean's cheek, where it rested. He tilted his head up and watched the black scratches that branches made on the sky whisk by overhead, watched rain-soaked clouds shudder past. Sam fidgeted on the seat next to him, looking…annoyed, nervous? Sometimes Dean had a hard time reading Sam, and he knew he was probably the only person on earth who could read him at all. As if sensing Dean's attention, Sam turned and tried to smile at him, and Dean took his hand. Sam let out a sigh of relief, and leaned closer.

"Nervous?" Dean asked. It had been a long time since they'd seen the man, John Winchester. This visit was a gift of Assasi, a surprise….

Sam leaned against him, and Dean felt his heart beat where he pressed his chest tight against Dean's shoulder, felt his breath wash across his cheek. Sam's hand tightened on his. His hand was bigger now, hadn't fit rolled up in Dean's palm like a little mouse in longer than Dean wanted to think. His hand was almost big enough to cover Dean's now. He'd lost most of the puppy fat he'd had, just a bare trace left in his cheeks, his jaw. Dean shivered and Sam pulled back to smile lazily at him, like they'd just shared a secret. It was the look he got when they were alone, when they were quiet and private together. He nudged Sam back, and patted his knee.

Mr. Assasi's sat across from them, his arms spread wide across the back of the limo's leather seat. Dean caught his little smile, the way he glanced over them, the way his eyes settled on Sam with a look that was part calculating, part fondness. Dean was generally skilled at reading expressions—had to be—but this one. This one he wasn't getting. That he couldn't read the man as well as he could most kept Dean on edge around Assasi, always a little uneasy, as much as he admired him. He was startled out of his worrisome thoughts by Assasi's voice, low and smooth. "Eh, _raggazo_ , we're almost there. And here she is." He settled back into the seat as the boys pressed their faces to the window.

The walls were high, and made of dark stone and Dean imagined entering hell must feel like this when the car rolled through the huge, iron-clad gates. This dark, forbidding place, this was the place John Winchester was.

There was a bit of business at the gates with the guard and then they were inside, Louie taking the car and Dean and Sam going ahead with Mr. Assasi. The hall echoed with their footsteps, the sound of their breath, every hitch and pause was noticeable as a shout. Other than the sound of their footsteps, it was quiet, still as the grave. Dean looked around at the stone walls and up at the windows higher than he could reach—than Mr. A could reach. Each narrow slice of glass was filmy with dirt and barred with iron. The hall changed, from stone and black granite floors to drywall painted pea-soup green, the floors overlaid with white streaked brown linoleum--their shoes beat a muffled cadence against the floor. The over-head lights cast smeary circles on the highly polished floors and Dean could see, from the corner of his eye, Sam trying to step on each reflected circle, until Dean jabbed his elbow into Sam's side. Sam cast him an angry look, but stopped. There were ways you had to behave sometimes, Dean thought—Sam needed to show some respect for the lost and suffering in this terrible place.

The guard walked ahead of them, silent also, until they came to another door. This one was solid wood, with a small barred window inset. The change was dramatic, even through the heavy oak door, Dean could hear yelling, the sound of many voices calling out together in the distance. John Winchester was behind theses doors, somewhere in this place, and part of Dean suffered the loss, and part of him felt a breath of relief that bars kept him from the man.

The guard rapped hard, three times, at the window, and when it slid open, "Three coming to see Winchester," he said quickly, glanced about him, and carefully handed a card through the window's bars.

The guard at the door glanced at it, ran his fingers over the square of velvety white cardboard, his fingernail bumping over the embossing. He let out a low, quickly snuffed whistle. He colored faintly before nodding and waving them through, his eyes on Dean and his brother all the while. Dean could tell, this was something unusual. Either Mr. A being here at the gate, or him and his brother being here. The gate swung open and they walked down another hall, this one narrow, and smelling of cabbage and urine. Turning his head, Dean watched the gate guard watching them, and all the while, his heart beat like a rabbit's.

Dean held his brother's hand as they were ushered into a small room bisected by a glass and wire wall. A long table ran the length on both sides of the glass, little wooden partitions split up the table. "Wait here," the guard said. A light high on the wall blinked to life, and a door opened and there he was. Their father, John Winchester.

He came in and stopped, face blank of expression. The guard behind him prodded him forward.

He sat, cuffed hands in front of him, staring at the screen cut into the glass, not meeting their eyes at all. "Boys."

That was it. Four years of separation, two years of not hearing a word and all John said was _boys_. Not a word wondering how they lived, how they'd survived…not a word of regret for leaving them….

He was taller than Dean remembered, thinner, circles under his eyes darker. His cheeks were dark with stubble, badly shaved. He had new scars, and the knuckles on his hands fisted on the table in front of him were raw, scabbed. A storm of conflicting feeling roared in Dean, pleasure at seeing the man, anger at him not checking, not looking for them, longing for his daddy, the one who took him to the pier and fed him hotdogs and kissed his cheek….

"Dad," Dean said and turned to Sam. "Say hi to Dad, Sammy." And Sam frowned in that way that wrinkled his whole face, like he'd bitten down on something horrible.

"What for?" But under the anger, the scorn, Dean knew…he knew his baby brother hurt as much as he did, that he cared as much. Sam just…had a different way of showing it.

John flinched and scowled. His pale skin flushed. "See you haven't changed, boy." His attention shifted to Dean and their eyes met at last. " Dean, you taking care of him?"

Dean stared at the man. "Well, Dad, I was. I got us a place to sleep when they threw our stuff on the street, when we lost the place about a day after you'd gone, but that was okay, I ran numbers for Boggy, you know him right? He gave us a place to stay and gave us food sometimes."

John went whiter than his already prison pale. "You—you gotta stay away from a man like him, he's no good—"

"Oh, I know all about how no good Boggs is, first hand kinda. But it's okay; we found us a better place to live. Some one to look out for us. We're rolling in clover now, Dad. We're doing…good, hunh, Sammy?"

Sam shrugged, leaned against Dean—melted into his side and gave John Winchester a long, dark look. He smiled at him when Dean threw his arm around Sam's shoulder, pulled him in tight under his arm. John looked at Dean's arm, looked at Sam's small, secret smile and blanched.

"Who's doing it—how can they be, Sam's skinny as a rail." Sam sniffed and frowned a bit. John went on. "Who's taking care of you?"

Dean pressed a kiss to Sam's temple and ignored John's growing frown. "Sam's just growing, that's all. He's almost tall as me now. Don't worry about who's taking care of us, he just is."

 _"Who?"_ John insisted, and looked worried, a little ill….

Sam leaned forward before Dean could stop him and said, "Mr. Assasi, you know him don't you? He's the boss of the Red Hands. You know them right? He's taking care of us." Sam ran his fingers down the navy wool coat he wore, touched each gleaming brass button tenderly. "He takes good care of us—he likes us. Me."

John's mouth dropped open, "No. no, no. You're lying. You wouldn't."

Dean stared him down. "You said take care of Sammy. I couldn’t have Boggs touching him. I couldn't…I couldn’t have Boggs touching me no more. I'm sorry Sam." He looked at his brother and tears stood in his eyes. "It woulda been easier then but…but I just couldn't do it no more. I just…."

Sam stopped him with a kiss. "It's okay."

John jumped up, slammed his hands against the glass. "No, no, no! You're canceling out everything I done! Everything I worked for! Me sitting in here—four years—more like forty years in hell, boy and you're telling me you're with the one who put me here—"

The guards at either end of the room rushed forward and restrained John, pulling him away from the glass. He lunged and screamed in their arms, his burning eyes locked on Dean. "Traitor! Traitorous bastard. You're not mine; you're no parts of mine—" He turned to Sam, shouted, "It was you, wasn't it? You! Burn in hell, you little bastard--"

Dean grabbed Sam and pulled him out of the chair, holding him as if he could shield him physically from John's words. The door they'd come through flew open, the guard that had brought them in hustled them out, with stern warnings to sit on the bench outside the room and to be quiet, quieter than mice.

Assasi passed them, tossed them a glance, a smile, waved his hand as if to say 'it's nothing boys, nothing.' He tossed Dean a pack of gum and a wink.

Dean held it for a moment before grimacing and passed it to Sam, who ripped off the cover, pulled out a stick and shoved it into his mouth, chewing happily as if they'd been at the matinee and not just been disowned by the only other family they had.

"You're a sucker, Dean. This is good."

"Yah, yah, you have it Sam, s'all yours…." Dean stared at the door and wondered, what was coming next. Now that John knew he'd been betrayed, what would happen to the two of them?  


* * * * * * 

John sat at the table, forced back down by the guards. No wonder the boys were in to see him. They'd been brought in—smuggled in by Assasi. The man was an evil, soul-sucking bastard. John knew exactly what it was he was trying to do—

"Well, well, well. Johnny Winchester. Look at you. Look at you, sober at least. Keepin' yer nose clean, Johnny-boy?"

"I'll kill you. When I get out of here I'll kill you."

"Yeah, yeah, sure. Nice seeing your boys, hunh? Good boys, both of them, especially Sammy. Though Dean's a pistol, a real pistol. He's gonna work out good for me, just like my boy Sam will."

"They ain't yer boys, neither one of em. You keep your fucking evil hands off them."

Assasi leaned back stared at John, and then rocked forward. "Don’t worry. Dean's dead soon as we're back in the city. Sam…I might have use for him. He's so sweet, and that tight little ass…there's lotsa guys like Boggs, guys with money and the time to train a boy up to be…whatever they need."

Red flooded John's face, then rushed away to leave it pale. Sweat ran down his neck, staining the collar of his prison shirt black. "Why…."

"Revenge, hunh? What's better? Unless…you can trade me something. Big Moe…he get's the real thing, the real hunert per cent in the barrel juice, not stinkin' rotgut some jamoke cooked up in a tub, hmm. I wanna know how he gets it, where it comes from and who he's greasing to keep it flowing. I wanna know everything about it and you're going to tell me."

"I don’t know 'bout that shite—I'm just an axeman. I'm not privy to Big Moe's business deals…not like that."

"You know, when Moe told you Mary's youngest son wasn't yours, and pointed you my way, why'd you believe him? Didn’t she tell you Moe was lying, that Moe wanted at her? You were supposed to die in my house, Johnny-boy. Not kill your wife and set the home on fire." Assasi leaned back in his chair, smirking at John. He made a huge production of lighting a cigarette. "Terrible waste, that. But at least you got something out of it, that pretty little boy you made. Who is yours, by the way, bone and blood all yours."

John sat, still as stone. "Shut up. Shut up."

"Now…you can save Dean and Sam by giving me the truth or let them die—well, Dean anyway. You can finish off what you started and kill what's left of your family." Assasi stood. "Or save them…John. What’s it gonna to be? I'm givin' you a pretty good deal. Just a few words and your boys go free--or you can stay loyal to a man that was never loyal to you. Not like your Mary was."

John licked his lips and said, "Sit down…please. We'll talk."

 

* * * * * * 

  


John felt like the weight of the world was on his back. What he'd learned had broken what was left of the John Winchester who used to spit in the devil's eye. Until today, when the devil came to him and took every bit of what made him a man away. Somewhere out in the city, John knew, his boys were happy, fed and warm, through no doing of his own. Somewhere out in the city, they were forgetting that they had a father. Somewhere out there, Assasi was taking the last thing he had in the life, the thing he'd squandered. The love of his children, their respect….

John shuffled down the line of men waiting to shower, clutching his soap and his towel.

He walked into the dingy tiled stall, hung his clothes on a hook safely away from the showerhead and stepped under the spray. It was barely lukewarm and the spray occasionally stopped its work and dribbled before coughing out a weak spray again. John soaped down and thought about what Assasi said. Everyday that he'd been locked up in this hell-hole, he beat himself up over his boys. He thought every day about how he'd failed them, what he'd taken from them. He thought about true Hell and how he'd earned himself a place there over and over, with Mary's death he'd condemned himself like he'd never had rubbing out the mokes Moe pointed him at. He'd killed an innocent in Mary, and letting Assasi have Dean was like sacrificing another innocent. Sam…Sam would roll with the punches, no matter what. Sam was like a rat, he'd find a place to wiggle in and survive. John knew that, even admired it in a way. Dean was the one with all the honor—stuffed full to the brim with the belief in it, hide it though he tried. That was Dean.

Himself and Sam on the other hand—they just looked to survive. Sam was more like him than Dean had ever been. How he could have denied the boy—

"Mother of God!" He gasped, clawed at his neck as his throat filled with blood. Pain radiated from a burning hole in his chest, rushed outward. There was a hand on his jaw, pulling him back to a stranger's shoulder, an imitation of intimacy. Lips pressed to his cheek, a wet, smacking kiss, a wet hiss in his ear, "Big Moe says tell ya snitches die crying. Fucking John Winchester, you used ta be the best of the best." A hot line swept across John's neck, more pain. He was dropped to the tile floor, the last thing he heard was, "You're not so tough now." The piece of shaving mirror taped to a sawn off bit of broom handle dropped to the floor next to him. He lay in a swirl of black and red water, watched it whirl down the drain.

"Mary…" he tried to speak and blood flooded his mouth. "Mam…" he thought and was gone.

  
[ ](http://pics.livejournal.com/roxymissrose/pic/000caq31/)   



	3. Chapter 3

**1925**  
Sam looked up at the tap-tap on the door. "Louie?" he asked Dean and Dean shrugged. "Probably." He walked over and pulled the door open. "Hey. Did I forget to do something?" He still had grease under his nails—waiting for Sam to finish his homework before he cleaned Dean's nails because Sam didn't think Dean did a good enough job, didn't care about things like that. 

"Can I come in, boys?" Louie asked, his eyes on the floor and it was so uncharacteristic for the fat man that Sam stood, unease making him stalk to the door and try to put himself between Dean and Louie. With a small annoyed sound, Dean pushed Sam back, jerked his head at Louie. 

"Yeah, sure, come on in, Lou. What c'n I do for ya?"

"Shit, sport. I don't hardly know how ta tell youse…yer old man's dead."

Dean turned white as a ghost and Sam rushed to Dean's side to hold him up if need be. "What the fuck—what the fuck are ya talkin' 'bout? We just saw him not a few days gone past an' he was fine!" Dean was yelling by the time he finished and Sam jerked him away from Louie. Louie might love them, but no one screamed Assasi's capo down, not unless they were begging to be ventilated. 

Sam patted and rubbed Dean's chest, took his face in his hands when he wouldn't settle. "Hey, hey, Dean, listen to Louie, he's tryin' to tell us somethin' okay? Take a breath, Dean, calm down. Louie, really, he didn't mean it—"

Louie waved a hand at Sam, "Naw, it's okay, the lil' chauffer, he don't mean no disrespect—it's outa respect for yer old man an' that's right, that is—no matter what else he was, John Winchester was your dad. Bought it bad, boys, got shanked. Heard they come after him inna showers, tha stinkin' rats. Behind his back, like a buncha pussies. Big Moe done it, boys, dollars to donuts it was that big mick bastard."

"Holy Jesus, mother of mercy…" Dean staggered, searched behind him for a chair and dropped into it. He curled over his knees, fists in his face. "Fuck. Fuck," he said, but nothing else. 

Sam stood behind him, rubbing circles in his back, carding his fingers through Dean's hair. "Moe Kennedy killed my dad?"

"Looks like it."

"What's Assasi going to do? What's he going to let us do, I mean?"

Louie smiled at Sam. "Thatsa spirit, Puddy. But seriously," he breathed a long, deep sigh. "Mr. A's not gonna let youse do nothin'—yet. But he's gotta plan. He's gonna hit 'em where it hurts, inna fuckin' pocket. Mark me, boys, inside a month Big Moe's gonna be sellin' apples inna streets. Like a old fuckin' grandma and the wolves will drag him down, without us gettin' our hands wet. No fingers pointin'. You boys don't need that now."

Dean glared at Louie. "Fuck that. I want in. No more of this shit drivin' the man to ginmills and back, no more nightclubs. I wanna be the _driver_ —when he goes after Moe, I wanna be there."

"No, hell no!" Sam shouted. "The whole point of this is you stayin' out of the streets—keeping _out_ of the gangs, Dean!"

"Sam, don't be stupid, we're already there. If Mr. A's business goes south, not that that's gonna happen but say it did, you think the cops'd care that I just drive the cars? If I'm drivin' him back from a nightclub and lead starts flyin' it ain't gonna stop and fly around me, Sammy. I drive Mr. Assasi, that's all anyone cares about." He held his hand to Sam's cheek and Sam let him even though what he wanted to do was smack the hell out of Dean, beat some fucking sense into him….

"Sam, you're the only one who's safe because I begged Mr. A to keep you safe. Why'd'ya think he got you in that swanky school? Teach you how to talk all high class and dress like them mooks do? Cops ain't ever gonna lay a hand on you. Me, one way or another, I'm going down. Let me go down the way I want, my terms—like a man, on my feet."

"Fuck you Dean, fuck you."

Louie came over and grabbed Sam by the arms. "Listen to me, Puddy. Your brother's right. You got things to do, Mr. A tole me he's got plans for you. An' he ain't gonna let Dean-o throw his life away bein' some hood. He's got plans fer him too. Now, gwan, get dressed, the botha ya. Dean, wash your face, and here—" he held out a flat silver flask. "Take a hitta this and yank your suspenders up. The boss wants ta talk to youse personal. He wants ta let ya know, youse ain't alone." He watched Dean take a drink, then offered Sam but Sam shook his head. "Okay. C'mon, boys, let's get ready ta go."

* * * * * * 

"Boys, sit." Assasi looked like a king behind his desk, Sam thought, and wondered what it must feel like to know that everything you looked at belonged in the palm of your hand.

"I know," Asssasi said, "that Louie has told you already the unfortunate news." He put his hand over his heart. "It's a sad thing to lose a father like that. Sad thing." He shook his head. 

Sam startled at the sound of Dean sobbing. It made him angry that he'd lose composure like that in front of Assasi, that he'd show so much emotion for Winchester, that he'd do it in front of anyone but him. "Stop it, stop cryin', Christ's sake!"

"Eh, _Putto,_ there's no shame that a man should mourn his father. Dean, you gotta remember, you done everything you was supposed to and more. You were a good son; you kept your brother safe, just like the old man told you. John, he respected you for that. What's said when the blood is hot don't mean nothin'—in his heart he had respect for you. _I_ got respect for you, you don't forget that—I respect you." Sam looked up to catch Assasi's eye on him, bright and cold. "Each person gotta handle the grief in his own way. It's okay to grieve." He smiled at Sam, and gave him a slow wink. Sam smiled back, rubbed Dean's shoulder, light and soft, when he dropped his head to wipe his face dry. 

Assasi watched, weighing, assessing, it seemed to Sam. "You take care of your brother, there. Here." He came around the desk and reaching in his pocket, pulled out a fat wad of bills, peeled off a few and handed them to Sam. 

"Pipe down, hear? "Assasi said, overriding Dean's instant protest. He laid his hand on Dean's neck, fingers sliding into the short soft hair there—Sam inhaled sharply, a hot burst in his chest at the sight. Assasi folded to a crouch, hand on still on Dean's bowed neck and whispered in his ear, "Every once in a while, _Ragazzino,_ you gotta unbend that stiff neck. Take a break. Okay? Smella roses, right?" he flowed upright again and winked at an unsmiling Sam. "You go see that movie Dean's been yappin' about—that Hunchback thing, get some burgers, snag some pretty girls."

The watery eyes full of gratitude Dean turned on Assasi made Sam grind his teeth. But he had to admit—Assasi was good. Every day, he drove that hook he had in Dean a little deeper into his heart. If Sam hadn't been one hundred per cent sure where Dean's final loyalty lay, he would have felt the need to separate them. That and the certainty that Assasi had plans for them that went beyond toying with the heart of some penny-ante former numbers runner and newsie and his kid brother. Sam could wait. He could be patient when he had to be. He was willing to see how the cards fell. "Thanks Mr. A, we'll do that. Right Dean?"

Dean turned to Sam, and the shaky little tremble meant to be a smile for him made Sam breathe deep. Dean might have looked at Assasi with gratitude but it was love in his eyes when he looked at Sam. Sam smiled back, let the warmth fill him and Dean's smile grew stronger and that was good. That was very good.

  


[ ](http://pics.livejournal.com/roxymissrose/pic/000caq31/)

  


The death of John Winchester brought some few changes to the Winchester brothers' lives. The changes that had come with John's arrest were so huge, so incredible, that this additional change was really not all that significant, or so Sam felt.

What Sam Winchester did feel was a lightness of spirit that he'd never had before, a feeling of so many possibilities spreading out, so many roads to choose from. Life was an unending box of Whitman's and every fucking piece was a chocolate caramel, no matter what the lid said. He was on the way—high school was coming and after that, who knew? 

He spun a million plans and Dean figured in all of them. Every morning he rose and went to the window, looked in the direction of that big dark hill and smiled.

For Dean Winchester, it meant the feeling that he'd failed deepening. He'd failed somehow with Sammy, somewhere in trying to protect him from men like Boggs, he'd made it worse and he didn’t even know how. He'd failed his dad, betrayed him when he was down, failed his orders to protect Sam, that now that he was older, knew the man had meant even if it was protecting Sam from himself…every morning he showered in their squeaky clean green and white bathroom and let the tears go.

* * * * * * 

Assasi claimed John Winchester's body and laid him to rest next to Mary. Any crimes he'd committed were lost in the wind; John's judgment was coming in the next world. The _loving husband and father_ Assasi had carved into the granite of John's tombstone made Sam giggle, and Dean hit him hard in the ribs for that.

Sam's grade school graduation came on the heels of the funeral and the memories tangled up in Dean's mind: Sam smiling wide and happy in his Sunday best with the sun making a halo behind him, real champagne and somber men with thick, old-world accents and stiff black suits shaking his hand, Mr. Assasi beaming at Sam, brushing the thick fringe of chestnut hair off his forehead, cupping his cheek, grumbled vows of revenge and duty and right…too much good food and…and too much booze. Sundown. Night time.

Night. Nighttime thick with stars, and sweat pouring off his face and down his back from drinking so much and hot because he was, there was, it was dark, and at first he didn’t know but then he knew it was Sam's hand on him, cupping him, squeezing, Sam's teeth in his shoulder and his tongue, wet on his throat—Dean shuddered and moaned. He didn't know. 

He didn't know.

But that was a lie he told himself. Dean knew it was all him, his fault. He'd pressed his brother into the rough brick wall, in the dark; the music tinny and faint, the party sounds gone to a low murmur in the night. Sam's harsh breathing loud, frighteningly loud in his ear. Dean couldn’t think, could only move the way Sam let him move. Pull and tug and yank of buttons opened and. Sam rocked between Dean's spread knees, clutched at Dean's hip and came thick and hot on Dean's skin, his hand bruising. Bruises Dean would feel long after the color faded back under his skin. 

Dean's fault. His back was raw from the bricks and blood was on his shoulders but it wasn't enough. There'd never be enough pain to punish himself for failing so terribly. 

"Dean, come on. Dean. Dean, listen to me—"

Sam's voice lashed him, Sam's hand raked over his shoulder but Dean didn't listen, he walked away—ran away.

"Mr. A wants me, I'll. I'll be back. Later."

 _"Dean!"_ Sam's voice held that hurt-angry note that it got pretty regularly lately. Any trace of his sweet, soft, baby brother was long gone. This tall, thin, brittle stranger who'd taken his place scared and confused Dean. He pretended that Sam angered him but truth, he frightened him. What Sam would let him do…it was all on Dean. It was true because he knew it was true. How could _Sam_ understand this--thing? 

Right before Dean turned the corner to the street and Assasi's front door, he glanced back at Sam, who looked like a stranger. Tall, dark, hands in fists and his face a furious mask and Dean almost wanted to run back and beg him for forgiveness.

He leaned against Assasi's door instead, shaking, shaking, praying to stop.

* * * * * * 

Assasi walked in circles across his plush carpet. He stopped and thrust his hands in his pockets and looked Dean over the way he looked over a new car or a shipment of guns…and smiled.

"Told ya we was gonna talk about the future. So now we talk. About you, about Sam. Dean…I think of you boys like sons of mine. Mine. And I want the best…for you. For you the best is at my side. I'm putting my life in your hands, same as I do with Louie. Same as I do with my men." He lifted the back of his suit coat and instinct and training made Dean stiffen. Assasi ignored his flinch and pulled his hand from behind his back. In his fist a gun gleamed in the golden light of the study lamps. Dean blinked hard and told himself that if A was going to ice him it wouldn't be on his precious Persian carpets or his little couch, but he readied himself for the shot anyway. 

"C'mer," Assasi said and Dean rose like he had strings attached, from Assasi's mouth to his spine. "This is yours," the man said. The gun was a compact, efficient looking piece, blued steel and an oiled walnut stock. "This here is a Colt 1911. I take one look at this little beaut and I know, this is my Dean's. G'wan, take it" Assasi flipped it so that the stock was pointed at Dean and Dean took it slowly, carefully, his whole body letting Assasi know that Dean understood this was no simple gift, no simple thing. Dean ran his thumb along the length of the barrel. Curled his fingers tighter around the stock and smiled. "Thanks. Thanks…so much," he croaked.

"Looks like it was made for you—look how it fits your hand." Assasi smiled like an uncle giving his nephew a new toy. "So. You know what this means, hanh? No more of this shit drivin' me to ginmills and back, no more nightclubs?"

"Oh shit," Dean felt his cheeks burn, he dropped his head. "I'm sorry, Mr. Assasi, swear ta god I didn’t mean no disrespect—"

"Ah, don't worry about that," he laughed, "s'true, ain't it? Now, you'll still be driving—just it'll be the important things now. You'll be driving getaway for Louie's capers, too." 

"Lou's wheelman," Dean said, voice hushed with the weight of what Assasi had just laid on him. 

"Hey." A put both hands on Dean's shoulders. "Look at me."  
Assasi's hands swept from Dean's shoulders to the fan out across the back of his neck, thumbs brushing at the hinge of his jaws. Dean swallowed, looked up into A's whiskey colored eyes, they spread, darker, wider, until there was almost nothing else in the world but those eyes.

"Dean-o, ah? No _raggazo_ no more. You're not a little boy no more, you're a man." He kissed Dean on both cheeks and Dean's eyes slid closed. And then, fleeting, so feather light—maybe a brush against his mouth. Dean flinched. When he opened his eyes again, Mr. A was sitting behind the desk, chin rested on his fists, his eyes narrowed and mouth pursed with a small smile. "Take your gift and practice—an' don’t forget to go see Louie." 

Dean left the study, confused. Had that really happened? Had he imagined a kiss? He looked again at the deadly little gift in his palm. This in his hand, this was real. What was happening next, that was real and something to depend on. He tightened his hand until the gun bit into his palm and thought about nothing else but the changes coming.

* * * * * * 

Dean was somewhere with Louie and his crew, so Sam lay a towel out on the coach-house roof to sit and think and read. The heat felt good, warming the cotton shirt stretched over his shoulders, the back of his neck. He sighed and stretched just a bit, letting the heat warm and loosen muscles all over. He wiped sweat off his forehead, slid his hand under his shirt. Let it drift over his belly, over his navel and lower…he felt good, his dick hardened a bit at the touch, a stray thought… pictured Dean's shocked green eyes when he'd pulled an orgasm out of him, and stiffened up some more. Dean…so fucking delicious. Like a peach, waiting to be bitten into. Sam cupped himself, a lazy squeeze that made him smile. He wasn't about to jerk off on the roof but it felt good to imagine it….

"Hey, Sam, Sam you up there?"

"Fuck…" Sam frowned and rolled to his feet, whipping his shirt loose from his waistband and blousing it over his erection. He pulled himself back through the bedroom window and stomped down the stairs--stopped when he saw who was calling him. "Oh. Nicky." 

"Hey ya, Sam. Mr. A wants to talk to you." Before Sam could even open his mouth to ask, Nicky said, "Naw, Dean's not back yet. But don’t worry, that run was peanuts, Mr. Lou's just gettin' Dean in the swinga things, you know…"

Nicky babbled on as Sam wiped his face and neck with a damp cloth, wet a comb and pulled it back through his mostly uncooperative hair. He liked Nicky, as much as that was possible. Nicky talked a lot, but seemed to be observant. Sam wondered if his nonstop chattering was a way of covering for the fact that he saw everything. Sam had always understood how dangerous it was to know too much in a life like this….

Nicky was still talking, brown eyes sparkling, red lips moving around an endless stream of words and Sam watched them with fascination. Nicky talked with his whole body and Sam liked it—it wasn't something that Dean and he did. Sam tilted his head, looking at Nicky this way and that. He was almost as pretty as Dean...Sam stopped and considered how many pretty things Assasi surrounded himself with. 

"Hey, hey Sam, you ready yet?" Nicky broke in on Sam's thoughts and he huffed. Later, he'd take that train of thought apart. Now, he'd go and discuss his future with Assasi—it was the only reason he could imagine that A would call for him.

* * * * * * 

Nicky stopped at the door to the man's study and did some funny kind of half-bow before starting to walk away—blushed an interesting pink when Sam smiled at him, then bit deeply into his lip when out of curiosity and a suspicion, Sam brushed his knuckles along Nicky's waist. Sam noted the reaction, before Nicky lost interest for him and he turned to Mr. Assasi's study. He tapped at the door and it swung open.

"Come on in, Puddy, and shut the door," Assasi said. 

As usual, the heavy velvet drapes were drawn and the study lit with lamps, their thick, amber glass shades casting a golden glow over everything. He pointed at a chair pulled close to his desk and said, "Sit yourself, Sam. Told ya we was gonna talk about the future. So now we talk. About you, about Dean, and what I want for you. Sam…" he leaned back in his chair and looked down the length of his nose at Sam, expression blank as clean chalk-board but something like amusement in his eyes. "You're special. Knew that the first time I seen that ferocious little putto, kicking his fat little legs back n' forth on that chair. So I ask what can I do with that? And the answer was, bring him close to you, make sure he grows like a flower right in front of you. Sam, you're my insurance."

"What? How's that?"

"You're going to be a capo--capo dei capo. But this city, it's not so big. Not enough room for us both. But…it's got plenty room for me and a general to help me run it. This is something I don’t have. Louie, he's a fine captain but no general. He ain't got no vision—he's got heart, but vision, smarts, and the soul of a killer—he don't got that. You got that. Killer, that's what you are," Assasi said, and sounded proud.

Sam gaped at Assasi, ice crackling in his gut. "What the hell—I never killed no person, not me."

"We don’t need to lie between us." Assasi held his hands out, as if to stop a protest that Sam didn't make, too busy wondering how Assasi knew about the bum—wondering what else he knew. Dean….

"You work for me and I give you whatever you want," Assasi continued. "You go to the schools I pick and study the subjects I pick and date the women I pick—"

Sam fumed, anger wiping out the creeping ice inside. "Why should I? What do I get out of it?"

"Out of the poorhouse, you and Dean, forever. Anything money can buy. Power, control. A place in my empire, right by my side. Assasi rose from the desk. Walked around it and sat on the edge. He lit a cigarette and blew streams of smoke up to the ceiling. Sam watched him sharply. He had the feeling some enormous change was about to take place, bigger that the death of john Winchester. Power, control…the ability to move all the pieces on the board when and where he wanted—Sam licked dry lips. A place by A's side was a step way from sitting in his chair, alone….

Assasi smirked. "I know what you're thinking," he said. "And that's good you're thinking like that. But remember, I have something you want more than any amount of power or control, and a move on me is a move on that."

Sam felt the return of that chest freezing clutch of ice. "What...do you have?"

Assasi smiled wider and the gold light turned his eyes to bronze. "You know. I have the thing you want most in all the world, the thing you're dying to possess. Your brother."

Sam didn't try to deny it. "Who else knows?"

"You. Me. Maybe Dean. I only have one rule. Don’t break him." He laughed, threw the butt of his cigarette into the empty fireplace. 

"I'm just a kid," Sam said. "How can you make me do this stuff—think about—about college and away—"

Assasi shook his head. "You've never been _just_ a kid. But I am stronger than you. I have your brother in the palm of my hand and I can keep him there, or…" he held his hands open to Sam, "give him to you. And you know I can. I have the power to do either one."

"Yeah." He glared at Assasi, but he understood him, too. What better revenge, to continue to torture John beyond the grave? To flaunt how he killed the man and was untouched, how he'd stolen the man's sons and made them loyal, made them love him and this before John was cold in the ground. And after all, hadn't Sam been the one to go to him? Sam narrowed his eyes at him, hatred warring with admiration. "What happened to your accent?" 

Assasi laughed out loud. "I wish you loved me as much as I love you," he said, wiping his eyes. "Sam, Sam. We'll have so much fun, rule this city together--unless you really wanted to live on a little farm somewhere with your Dean, raising goats and making bread. Where’s the excitement in that?"

Sam pouted, "Getting the fucking goats to stand still long enough to milk them, I guess. I never wanted nothing like that anyway." 

Assasi sighed. "Good. I will give you Dean, and you will give me—a few years of your life." 

"Dean's already mine," Sam snarled.

"Of course, of course. Come on Sam, agree with me. Make a vow with me." 

Sam glared but nodded. Sure. He could figure out the angles later. One thing he knew was that Assasi didn't scare him, but maybe he scared Assasi a little. He let his scowl ease into a small smile. Assasi stood and held his arms out to Sam. 

"C'mere. This is something we decided on together, right? This is something you give freely?"

"Yeah, sure," Sam said. "Already said. We agreed on it." 

A raided an eyebrow at him and grinned. "And?"

"Um, I give it freely? Because I want the best for Dean. And for me."

"Oh, I know," Assasi said. "I know." He held his hands wide, a small smile tilting his lips up. "You'll look good at my side. You'll love the law, Sam. It's made for you. Now take off, sounds like Louie's back. Yer brother'll be lookin' for you."

Sam waved and bolted—as much to get out from under Assasi's stare as to get to Dean.

  
[](http://pics.livejournal.com/roxymissrose/pic/000caq31/)   
  



	4. Chapter 4

"So…not gonna ask me what me and A talked about?" Sam asked, licking his way around a vanilla sugar cone.

Dean shrugged. "Nutin' that's my business, I'm sure of that." He stuffed his handkerchief into Sam's free hand. "Geez, ya eat like a kid. What a mess."

Sam smiled at him and lifted his wrist, licked a long trail of white off his arm, sucked a bit off his wrist. "It tastes good. Not my fault it's hot as fuck out here." Dean smacked Sam hard on the back of the head. "Ow, quit it! Dean!"

"What I gotta tell you 'bout your language? I always gotta be on you for that?"

Sam pouted, and threw the cone into the gutter. Dean rolled his eyes and cursed under his breath. "Sam, you're too damn old for tantrums. You're too damn old for half the shit you do, and not old enough for the rest." Sam gave him a reluctant little smile at that—Dean mock-pouted at him until finally Sam gave up a dimpled smile. "That's better. Now let's spend this deuce the right way. First, the movies, than maybe we'll ankle over to the pool hall, or Molly's and get dinner. She's got meatloaf and mashed for fifty cents a plate, we could maybe get some pie after. They got a great peach pie—okay, apple," Dean sighed when Sam pulled a face. 

They followed the line of people into the Odeon, and Dean stared at the post cards advertising Ben-Hur.. The actor playing the main character was pretty good-looking, Ramon Novarro, and there was supposed to be a hot action scene—a chariot race—that sounded good. A bunch of flappers ahead in line were carrying on something fierce, giggling and gossiping together and then practically stopping traffic by smoking. He grinned and shook his head. Babies, pretending to be bad. Sam just snorted. 

"Idiots," He growled.

Dean gave him an indulgent smile. "You think that because you don’t like girls," he whispered, barely moving his lips, voice so low that no one but Sam could have heard it. 

"Do so," Sam whispered back and Dean laughed, low and soft and roughed up Sam's perfect hair.

"Sure you do. Sammy…all that matter's is you're my brother, okay?" he said, like that explained it all and Sam's eyes grew bright and a little glazed. 

"Yeah. You're my brother," Sam repeated in a way that seemed to mean a million things, but never failed to make Dean feel warm. Needed. "So, Assasi says I have to continue school, says I should get a college picked out for after high school. Says I should go into law."

"Sam, that's great. There's a buncha good schools upstate—you wanna take a ride out there and look around?"

"Hey, throw the brakes on, Cannonball. I haven't even begun my freshman year, yet, sheesh. You that eager to get rid of me?"

Dean glanced over at Sam but he was smiling so he grabbed his little brother around the neck and administered an Indian rub to the back of his neck, ignoring his yowls of outrage—mostly because he was laughing as much as he was yelling. 

The ticket taker snorted, enormously unimpressed. "Ah, you guys gonna keep horsing around, or ya gonna buy tickets?"

Sam smirked when Dean made a face at the guy, snagging the tickets out of his hand. Sam looked back and winked as they strolled into the darkness. 

 

They settled in the back row, applauded with the rest of the audience when the lights went down and the organ music grew louder. On the screen bigger than life, Ben-Hur fought and schemed and made love—the females in the audience sighed. Sam fumed because Dean stared with rapt attention at Ben-Hur, drinking in the sight of him, completely lost. Sam hoped the mug would die a horrible death, and contemplated giving Dean a handjob in the dark of the back row, gave it up when he decided Dean would probably flip his wig if Sam made him miss a precious minute of his big prancing crush…he settled down and crammed the milk-duds in his mouth and refused to share even one with his brother. Though Dean didn't seem to notice, probably too busy wishing he was wiping the sweat off Ben-Hur, faithless bastard.

The movies sucked. 

Dinner was better. They shoveled in thick chunks of meatloaf, creamy mashed potatoes and they'd had enough to order milkshakes with it. Sam loved that since living with Assasi, they ate when and whatever they wanted—he didn't think he'd ever get tired of eating. The memory of never having enough growing up made him gulp down whatever was in front of him like they'd not get a chance to eat again. Dean watched him with a fond smile. He seemed to love seeing Sam eat. Sam for his part didn't give a shit why Dean watched him; he just lapped up the attention. 

Dean was wiping up gravy on his plate with a slice of white bread when he started talking as though they'd been having a conversation all along. "Yeah, A's got me driving on a real job, coming up Friday."

"You drive already," Sam said. 

"Nah—not takin' Mr. A around—a real job. Well, close—I'm drivin' the next job Louie's got. Still justa driver but. Step up, y'know?"

"Yeah, yeah…" Sam chewed his bit of meatloaf thoughtfully. Sam knew the real step up was in being A's button man—and he was pretty sure that was what Assasi intended for Dean. He stared at his brother, wondered if he had it in him. He wasn't really a killer, didn't have the heart for it. Thing was, Dean was loyal to Assasi and would do what the man asked. But in Sam's vision of the future, he was the one who held the leash, not A. Sam just had to get Dean there. 

Sam felt generous, and let Dean choose peach pie, and hot with a dollop of cream on it, it really wasn't bad. He watched Dean chew and run his tongue over the lips that featured in every fantasy Sam had since he was nine and smiled. Assasi's plan really wasn't too bad…

  
[ ](http://pics.livejournal.com/roxymissrose/pic/000caq31/)   


Dean adjusted the Colt in the underarm holster again—was still getting used to the constant weight and slight pinch of the straps. He sighed, tapped a Chesterfield out of the pack and leaned against the car. Waiting, waiting, waiting for Mr. A to come out of the club. He'd spent the last hour sitting on the running board, smoking one butt after the other. He sighed. Since Assasi'd taken up with the latest bitch, they hit the speakeasies a lot. And when they went, Dean was still fuckin' drivin' him—no matter that he'd run a few jobs with Louie. Hell, they were all milk runs and Assasi still hadn't let him in on when he was going to move over to Louie's crew for good. Here he was, still ferrying Mr. A and whatever latest hooker around town.

The doors opened and a blast of music, Baby Face, rolled out into the relative quiet of the night, followed by the smell of booze, sweaty bodies and smoke. Dean grimaced and shifted his cigarette from one side of his mouth to the other and blew a blast of smoke out of his nose. Mr. A came strolling out, that woman hanging off him like a broke hip. She was laughing, loud-mouthed, all teeth and gums. She stumbled like she was too drunk to walk but Dean knew better. He'd seen too many chippies pull the same stunt on the street—seen some daisies do it too. It said, 'I need you' and 'I'm too drunk to protect myself.' 

She was everything Dean hated, loud, ignorant, and stuck to Mr. A like a barnacle. She was a whore, might as well be. Her tits showed every time she swung her arms and she swung her arms lots. Dean watched the flash of pink flesh, how the satin gapped and showed a peaked nub of darker pink. Dean caught her eyes on him, frowned and spit the butt to the pavement. He rose to open the door. She made a big production of squirming against him to get past and into the car. Bitch. 

"Eh, Dean-o, long night, hunh?."

Bitch yawned wide and stretched. "I'm tired, Daddy, let's go home to bed." She crossed her legs and Dean saw she didn't have underwear on. He wondered what the hell Mr. A saw in the cheap, hop-head floozy. He really wanted to strangle her. He forced his attention back to the road—he wasn't hurting his baby just because A had no fuckin' taste.

* * * * * * 

Sam was sitting on the stairs when they got home, still in his school uniform. At first all Dean saw was the white shirt, glowing in light from the lampposts. Sam's jacket was hanging open and his tie pulled loose, framing the open collar on his shirt. He was stretched out on the top step, long legs sprawling in the way. Louie was laughing at something he said. When he saw Dean, he smiled and tossed him a wave. The other guys pulled themselves straight—the boss was back.

Dean tensed all over, watching his brother. Sam unfolded himself from the steps and moved to sink back against the stair's railing, his mouth in a wide smile. So tall now, it was a constant surprise to Dean that they were now almost eye to eye. 

Some of the tension leached away when he realized Sam was smiling in that way he smiled only for Dean.

Sam turned, went back to talking with one of the gunsels Mr. A had around all the time. Because of Winchester, the entrances to the brownstone were always watched—it'd been a lesson learned. Dean didn't much care for the way the little rat was leaning into Sammy. Heeled or not, if he fucked with his brother, Dean was more than happy to hand the mug a lesson… 

Louie came back out the door and handed Sam a pop, fussed over him some before leaving off and Dean smiled. Louie was worse than a mother hen with Sam. Sam leaned over and whispered something into the baby mug's ear and they laughed together and it sent a bright sharp prick right under his breastbone. He laid on the horn, yanked the wheel, getting ready to pull into the back. Sam's head flew his way, the sharp movement flinging his thick hair around his eyes. He pushed it back and grinned at Dean and every thing was right and balanced again. 

Sam jumped off the steps and ran to him, hopping up on the Packard's running board and gripping the door, he laughed loudly as Dean drove back to the courtyard. Dean quickly glanced back to catch the other kid, the little hired gun, staring after Sam. Dean frowned until Sam flicked the tip of his ear and made Dean laugh, the gunsel forgotten under the bright weight of Sammy's smile.

* * * * * * 

Sam waited outside the garage doors until Dean parked the car, and Mr. A got out with the floozy. Sam nodded politely to them both. "Hi, Mr. A., did you have a good evening?"

"Ah," he shrugged, and pulled a cigarette out of his pocket, dipped his head to let Sam light it. "We called it a early night, nothing going on, and I had a few things Miss Parker here gotta help me with, take some notes or sumthin' for me…."

She giggled and ignored Sam completely and Sam smiled, waited until they were in the house before swinging around to tell Dean, "I hate her."

"Yeah, she's a round-heeled little bitch, all right."

Sam glared at Dean, his fox-eyes gone green with anger. "I hate her because she wants you. And she makes you jealous—I hate that more!"

"Jealous? What the hell're ya talkin' about, Sam, geez—c'mon, we gotta get inside."

 

They were upstairs and Sam just laying out cold meat and cheese for sandwiches when the phone rang. It was Louie, and Dean's heart beat faster—had a job finally come up for him? He grabbed the phone's receiver from Sam and snapped into the transmitter, "Yeah?"

_"Come on 'round to the main house, Chief, the boss wants you."_

"Be there in a minute, Lou." Dean slapped the receiver back on the hook, excitement making his gut go hot and tight. "I gotta go, Sam—I bet it's a _real_ job finally. You g'wan ta bed, you got school tomorrow and you been up way too late already." Dean slid on his overcoat, and screwed his fedora onto his head, grinned at Sam's pinched face.

"Stop treating me like a kid, will you? It's belittling and—and _offensive."_

"Aw, Sammy, you talk so beautiful, makes me shiver all over," Dean teased, and shimmied a bit as he said it.

"Yeah? Is that so?" Sam asked, his voice suddenly deeper, rougher. His eyelids fell slowly, black lashes sweeping down and rising again, tongue sweeping out over his lower lip, making it shine. Shell pink and wet…bitable. "Come back and I'll talk to you some more, hunh?"

"Sam," Dean scolded. _"Quit_ it." Sam was forever, forever doing some odd dance that only he knew the steps for. Dean blushed hotly, thinking of Sam dancing just for him, licking that plump pink lip. Heat coiled deep down inside him and he forced himself to stand straight and tall. "Sam."

Sam pouted, all sign of heat gone. He was just Sammy again, Dean's pain in the ass kid brother. "Dean, come on. Don’t go…I don't think he's callin' for you for somethin' good, can't you …."

"Sorry, Sammy. When Mr. A calls, I gotta go." He buttoned his coat and leaned over to kiss the cheek Sam tipped to him—he was definitely steamed because he just held still for a kiss and kept his eyes trained on the wall opposite them. Dean sighed and brushed Sam's hair back. "Time for a haircut, squirt. I'll do it for you tomorrow after school okay?" He knew and Sam knew it was an olive branch, an apology. Mr. Assasi had barbers who'd cut their hair for free—for Dean to do it meant Dean loved Sam and hated making him unhappy, even for a minute.

* * * * * * 

Dean was let into the main house, nothing but Sam on his mind, feeling guilty, sad…and truth be told, a little horny. Whether Sam meant to or not, sometimes he really wound Dean up and that just made him burn. So steamed that Sam could set off such a storm of emotion. Fourteen—the kid shouldn't be such a problem. What Sam did—it drove him crazy. It was okay for little kids who didn’t know better but this thing…it was nuts. Nuts. He hated it…couldn't live with it. Couldn't imagine how to live without it.

Dean blinked, wiped his mouth. Hunh. He was at the door to the parlor without realizing it. He tapped on the doorframe and waited. Assasi answered the door, all smiles and hot eyes and Dean wondered why it wasn't Louie at the door. 

"Hey, Dean-o. Y'can take your coat off, we ain't goin' nowheres tonight."

Dean turned toward Mr. Assasi like he brought the sun. Mr. A always made him feel he was solid, both feet on the ground. Something he didn't always feel like around Sam.

Assasi smirked at Dean. He was in shirt sleeves, his suspenders hanging off his hips. Dean's breath stuttered and he glanced away, focused on the wall behind him. Assasi rolled his cuffs, smoothed back the blonde sweep of his hair. "Come sit here, Dean-o, got somethin' to tell you."

 

 _She_ was lounging on the couch, wearing nothing but a satin robe and rolled stockings and little pointy shoes with feathers on the toe and rhinestones on the heels. Every time she moved Dean got a flash of rosy nipple, or sleek cream hip, like she didn't even care or Dean wasn't a man. His cheeks burned—it pissed him off. Made his dick thick up some, unwanted. Dean hated her for it. 

Assasi caught Dean's discomfort and laughed softly. "Hey, Dean-boy…you ever been with a girl like that?" He jerked his chin towards the simpering blonde.

"No…I mean, no, not like her."

"Then tonight, I'm giving you a gift." Mr. A smiled, a slinking, foxy crawl of a smile. He held his hand out, and his voice was low and rough, but not pretty like Sam's. Gritty and coarse, like gravel. He said, "C'mon, get over here."

Dean sidled over to Assasi, his head down but watching him through the fringe of hair that fell over his eyes. Assasi put his hand on Dean's neck, broader than Sam's and not as warm. He pulled Dean back until Dean was pressed against his chest. He felt the play of muscle in the other man as he shifted, pushed a knee between Dean's. 

The blonde wiggled her ass as she bent over the Victorola, set the needle arm down on the edge of the record and turned it up, loud enough that the pop-hiss of little scratches on the record were plain. Dean jumped a little when The Frank Black Orchestra began belting out the Varsity Drag, snappy and loud, and the dame did some kind of knock-kneed version of the Shimmy. The robe slid open with the way her shoulders shook. With a wink and a red-mouthed grin, she slinked her way across the room, stopping in front of them. She dropped the robe off one shoulder and winked. The pink tip of her tongue swept over her lower lip, she sucked it in with a moan, like she tasted something good. Dean's breath came fast, faster when he felt Assasi behind him. He was hot against Dean's back and Dean could feel him, hips shifting a little off beat to the music. The girl ran her hands down her breasts, tweeking her nipples—her mouth dropped open slightly. She slid her hands down Dean's chest, to his hips, cupped him and Dean's head jerked back, knocking into Assasi, who chuckled and slid his own hand over the girl's. Dean's dick jumped, spitting wet in his shorts. The hand Assasi had on Dean's neck slid to Dean's chin, and framing it with his fingertips, tilted Dean's head down to the girl's mouth. "Ever kiss a girl?" 

Dean nodded—he had but this was going to be different than those kisses.

"So go ahead." Assasi's breath was a little sour with wine and Dean shivered. Strong, wiry hands were on his shoulders again, thin, smooth lips grazed his cheek, rasping against the stubble. The girl pressed against him and opened up wet and wide and Dean kissed her. Assasi said, "ah," a tiny sound that he'd have missed if the man wasn't right at his ear. Dean felt the wet, warm tip of his tongue dart against his earlobe, quick and almost not even there. 

The girl had his belt open and his dick out and in her mouth and Dean shouted at the feel. Assasi's hands went tight and hot on his shoulders and suddenly, the sun went out. All he could think of, all he wanted, was out—away from them. He only wanted Sam. He wished Sam was there, wanted Sam to take him away…for the first time in his life, he _wanted,_ needed Sam's help. 

Assasi inhaled, quick, sharp—and stepped back. He sat on the sofa and smiled at Dean, his eyes glittering bright in the light of the gas jets he kept in the parlor. "Go ahead, have fun. This is for you."

The girl smirked and lost the robe, it slithered off her to puddle around her feet. She bent backwards against a sofa back and spread her legs, all Dean could see was the pink wet inside of her. He shuffled forward, not bothering or wanting to step out of his pants kind of desperate now to get it over with. He stood between her legs. She laughed and lifted them, crossed her ankles behind his back, resting on the rise of his ass. "Go ahead, big boy. Show us what you got."

He pushed in hard and slid in without resistance, she was that wet…or, he realized, she'd already done this and—his hips churned thoughtlessly, his dick riding on a slick made of himself and Assasi…his dick twitched, jumped inside her and she groaned at the feel, tightened on him and Dean thought 'A was in her, came in her, this is him….but it was Sam's face, Sam laughing at him, yanking his head down hard for a bruising kiss, that made him come.

  
[ ](http://pics.livejournal.com/roxymissrose/pic/000caq31/)  


Sam knew; he knew like he'd gotten a telegram from Hell, what Dean was doing at A's. The bitch was bait, Dean was a fool, and this was a play on Assasi's part--or a warning to Sam.

Well, fuck them both. Instead of readying himself for bed like Dean ordered, he strolled around to the house.

Some of Louie's crew, including the main driver, were still camped out on the house steps, further proof that Dean was in A's house, so Sam walked up to the stoop and tilted his head at Nicky. "Hey. You wanna come listen to the radio with me?"

"Who—me?" Nicky's Adam's apple jerked as he swallowed hard, his eyes gone wide and round. "Yeah. But…."

"But me no buts, you coming or not?" Sam grinned as he said it, and let a little heat into his eyes. Fuck Dean, he wasn't the only one who could this. Fuck him if he didn’t want Sam, fuck him. He'd find someone who did. Nicky was fine, Nicky was great—perfect. 

In the small spare bedroom that they never used, Sam spread Nicky out over the bed, looking him over and comparing him to Sam's standard: his brother. Nicky wasn't as wide, or as muscled, his eyes weren't green and he didn't have freckles, didn't have a wide, warm mouth. His dick was slender, nothing like the hot, thick handful that he knew Dean's was…but it was sleek, hard, and already bubbling up precome just from Sam's hard, assessing stare. Nicky liked it like that, Sam realized. He might not be as experienced as this boy but Sam could see that he was just waiting to cede control to him. Sam had no plans to disappoint him….

* * * * * * 

Sam pulled back, wiped his mouth and left pink smears on the back of his hand. He pumped in and out of Nicky, slowly, contemplative, now that he'd come. He listened to the little gasps and chokes that leaked from Nicky as he tried to breathe. Sam stroked his shoulders and watched goose bumps rise in the wake of his hand, the little comma shape the smear of blood formed as Sam's thumb traced around the half-moon mark of his teeth, so pretty against the sun-browned skin of Nicky's shoulder. Nicky shivered, moaned and shivered…"You okay?" Sam asked.

"Unh—yes, yeah. I'm okay—can I? Is it okay--?"

It took Sam a moment to realize that Nicky was asking permission to come, and he laughed. "Sure, you take care of that—wait."

Sam pulled out and Nicky moaned, deep and disappointed when Sam stopped him from jerking off. Sam flipped him face up on the bed, and said, "Now. I want to see."

Nicky flushed an even deeper red but took his dick in hand and started stroking, teeth pressing into his lower lip, stealing glances at Sam from under the thick dark fringe of his hair. Sam sat cross-legged on the end of the bed and stared, taking note. Watching how sweat sprang up on the man's upper lip, how his eyelids dropped and fluttered as his breath got deeper, louder. He watched pearly drops of precome well up and drip onto his stomach, glisten on his hand. The tiny, half-there hitches his hips made as his dick twitched in his grip, and how the slit pouted open and every inch of Nicky quivered towards release. Sam whispered, "Okay, come," and Nicky screamed, low and hoarse and spurt long ropes on his belly, spattered his chest, gasped when a slick blob smacked his chin. He blinked, mouth open and belly heaving trying to inhale and Sam laughed at how confused and surprised he looked. 

"You liked that?" Nicky nodded and Sam nodded too. "I don't think we'll do this again, though."

Nicky opened his mouth to—protest, beg, whatever it was Sam didn't care. He leaned forward, all his weight on Nicky's ankles and said, "I ain't gonna argue about this. And I sure don’t wanna hear from anyone else about this."

Nicky shook his head. His eyes said no, no. Never. 

"Good. Get dressed, you gotta get out now. Hey—" he stopped Nicky from scrambling off the bed, and looped an arm around his neck. He kissed him, slow and sweet, pressed his mouth against Nicky's cheek and said "—thank you. Thank you, okay?" Sam gazed into Nicky's eyes and smiled and like that, Nicky was Sam's forever—however Sam wanted him. 

Sam studied the boy, how he'd gone from being crushed, to being Sam's, in a few little minutes and for very little work. Sam thought that this was interesting and very useful to know, that he could do a thing like that. Sam wove that bit of information into the web of other information spun in his brain; all the little things Sam thought might one day be important to him.

He thought of Assasi in the dark study, sitting behind the big, mahogany desk, planning Sam and Dean's life out and laughed. Thought about heading to the main house's kitchen and bugging Louie into making him a sandwich, maybe some coffee with it. Letting Louie spin his tales of life in the mob before Assasi, and what it was like. _"Not better, Puddy, just—different. Things change,"_ Louie'd say, _"Things're always changin', tha's life."_

Sam slid his feet into his boots and yanked a jacket on. Louie was right, life was all about change. A smart man tried to guide it to his advantage, though. He shut the door and wondered if Dean was done yet, maybe in the kitchen with Louie. He didn't wash up, and left the bed a wrinkled mess.


	5. Chapter 5

The light was on in their little bathroom when Sammy came barreling through the door.  
"Aw Dean, you shoulda gone with me, man—when's the last time we went to the movies together, hunh?" He listened for an answer, but Dean was silent, just the water running and the pipes knocking…"Just so you know, I didn't go stag, either—I got paid for baby-sittin' too, can ya believe it? Gloria—y'know, Mr. A's new piece a' tail?" 

Sam tossed his jacket at a kitchen chair and loosened his tie. Took a moment to imagine water running over the sweet curve of Dean's ass, gleaming like diamonds on the silk-soft golden hair there, slipping down the dark cleft. Sam groaned deep in his throat as he pictured streams of water sliding over Dean's tight hole, that pretty pink knot. Pictured it pouting around his finger ….

He shook his head hard, knocking the fantasies clear—and realized Dean hadn't answered him. He was either pissed off or greasing the pole. "Hey, dya hear me? Gloria the horse happy whore?" He thought he heard a faint distressed noise and grinned. "She let me shoot her up in the car—" he said that just to rile Dean up. He grinned, a smile that exposed his back teeth, picturing the face Dean was making, how mad it made him for Sam to even get in spitting distance of dope. Not that it wasn't true, he had stuck the nail in the whore's arm, liked watching the blood mix with the horse before sticking it back in her, but he'd lie and swear that he'd said it just to rile Dean, no sense in making him so mad he wouldn't let Sam convince him it was okay to slide his hand into his pants—he missed Dean, his smell, the smooth warmth of his skin. What he'd said must have broke through to Dean finally. Sam got a response. But when it came, it was a word drowning in misery.

_"Sammy—"_

Sam jumped like he'd been scalded and burst through the bathroom door. His eyes were on the shower and he yelled "Dean!" when he didn't see his brother's shadow on the shower curtain and—

"Sammy…" It was such a small, defeated, terrified sound that Sam gasped in horror, was already crying when he ripped the curtain back to find Dean curled in a ball on the tub floor, shoved up against the faucets and as small as a six foot something guy could get. The water pooled under him was pink; dots tinted a darker color swirled towards the drain.  
Sam dropped and pulled Dean out of the tub, and Dean went, so pliable, boneless, that even through Sam's fear, he felt a jolt hit him that went straight to his dick. "Dean—Brother, what's wrong? Please, what's wrong?"

Dean began to rock against him, moaning softly; when he didn't answer Sam grabbed him by the hair, pulled him out of the crook of his neck and shook him. "Brother, you tell me right now what the fuck is wrong!"

"Sam, Sam, I killed a man." Dean looked horrified, frightened, he cringed as he said it, as if Sam would throw him away from him in disgust. He closed his eyes and Sam was grateful because he didn't think he'd be able to hide the fierce burn of instant lust brought at Dean's words—the pounding, shattering, _desire_ and the hellish jealousy he felt. Sam swallowed hard and waited until he knew his voice would hold steady before he spoke again.

"Dean, whatever happened wasn't your fault. Wait, what did happen, you were supposed to be home, you said you was sick." Sam's language, carefully stripped of the street through Dean's nagging and A's encouragement fled him in the roiling stew of emotion filling him. "You lied to me, ya bum—whathafuck!"

"Mr. A. he din' wan' ya t'know 'bout this job," Dean muttered, his words slurring like he was drunk and his ice-cold shoulders shaking under Sam's hands. "Was 'posed to be look-out man—they were gonna bust up Big Moe's booze shipment. Was a double cross, Sammy. G-men came outa nowhere and everybody went in guns blazing…pulled my gat an'…" Dean shuddered and clung to what he thought was the last good thing in the world and Sam curled his hands around the back of Dean's neck, slid them down to rub and stroke the small of his naked back and Sam shook with the desire to fuck his brother right there on the bathroom tiles. 

"Not your fault, Brother," he said, pressing his mouth to the crown of Dean's head. "Not your fault. A's fault," he muttered into the brylcreme and sweat scented hair. Sam became aware that there was another smell, a bright metallic scent. He recognized it, the tangles in Dan's hair…clotted blood. He scraped his hands over Dean's head, checking quickly—not Dean's. Sam took a deep, steadying, breath. "Hey. Dean." He tilted his brother's head back and met glazed eyes, a blink sent tears down Dean's cheeks, and then, his lax mouth shuddered and tightened. When he spoke again, his voice was steadier, some color back in his face. He said, "Shot one of Moe's mooks. He came at me, I blinked and he was right in front of me, pointed that iron at my eye so I shot. We're good shots, Sammy, fast." and Sammy nodded to the truth of that. "I blew out his eye and the back of his head and blood and brains went everywhere—hit the wall behind him and all over me—" 

Sam groaned and tipped Dean into him, covered his mouth with his own. 

Dean shuddered and jerked and tried to pull away but then, Sam felt something in his brother break all the way through and he let Sam kiss him. He muttered against Sam's mouth, "I'm a killer, I killed a man," and Sam kissed him harder, taking his words away. The inside of Dean's mouth was hot, and silky wet, Sam licked all over the inside and imagined he tasted it, the blood of the man Dean killed, on his gums, trapped against the roof of Dean's mouth, on the wet, rough texture of his tongue. He moaned and caught Dean's tongue in the tip of his teeth, teased with the possibility of pain and then sucked it, sucked on the tip like it was a cock head, teased with the point of his tongue; let it slide out slowly from between his teeth. Dean was moaning now, sure he was. Sam knew he was a good kisser; he practiced on dozens of nobodies for this, his only chance to snare Dean completely, snag him like a little rabbit in a noose trap. Make sure his soul was meshed so deeply with Sam's he'd never get loose and this killing—he wanted to thank Assasi just as much as he wanted to kill him. 

Dean's head dropped back, his eyes on Sam, nearly all pupils they were, blown and glazed from what had happened, what they were doing. Dean's square, sturdy palm, the hand that Sam could easily swallow in his own, crept into Sam's lap like a little mouse and settled tentatively over Sam's hard-on. "Lou said—said I was made, he said I was blooded," and Sam snatched at Dean's hand, shoving it away as his dick twitched and emptied into his boxers. Before he could draw a breath, before Dean could think, Sam dropped to his knees and took Dean's barely half-hard dick in his mouth. Dean twitched and gasped, "No."

Sam opened his throat and let Dean slide in, back, back until he fought to hold it, his throat spasmed with the invasion. He swallowed, and swallowed, his tongue washing the underside, and he groaned at a new taste, the taste of Dean, pre-come thick and sweet and warm—Dean cried out and pumped his hips forward, caught in the grips of coming. His hands came down on the back of Sam's neck and pulled him closer. Sam gagged, his eyes shedding water even though he'd screwed them tight at the first savage clench of his throat around Dean. He looked up and Dean looked horrified. "Sam—I hurt you, you—"

Sam closed his eyes, trapped Dean where he was and came again.

Dean was on his knees the minute Sam let him go, scrubbing the tears away, crying himself, begging Sam for forgiveness, cursing himself and swearing that he'd never, never touch him again, that he deserved to have been shot this night instead of the nameless gunsel, until Sam grabbed a thick handful of his hair and yanked, hard. He felt hair popping loose in his grip and growled out Dean's name.

"Dean. Be quiet now. Shut up and listen to me. You're going to wash, clean yourself and pull yourself together. You're going to talk to Lou, Louie, he’ll stand up for you, you know that. Besides, Assasi's not gonna hurt you—he'll probably make you his button-man—shut up," he hissed when Dean tried to protest. "What else are you going to do? What are you smart enough to do?"

Dean caved right in front of him, curled in on himself and dropped his hands. They curled into loose fists in his lap, slid in a slick trail of come dappling his thigh. Dean tried to cover it, and sighed when Sam took his hand and wouldn't let him. "Yeah, yeah…I know, Sam. I know."

Sam slid his fingers around in the tacky mess running down the inside of Dean's leg. He gave Dean a small, soft smile. Said, "It'll be a chance to make money, Dean, real money. Enough to take care of you. Take care of me." He tilted Dean's mouth up to his with wet fingers, pressed small, chaste kisses to Dean's lips until Dean kissed him back. "I love you, Brother, love you so much," Sam said.

Dean made a small, soft noise, a sob that disappeared in Sam's mouth. 

"Let's get you clean," Sam said. He turned away to clean the tub, fill it with fresh hot water and smiled and smiled.

* * * * * *

It was early in the morning when there came a steady pounding on their door. Dean jerked awake, blinking in the weak sunlight peaking through the sloppily drawn curtains. He was muzzy-headed, not really sure why he was in bed with Sam, tacky and naked...until it hit him like a loaded glove, smack in the kisser. His breath came fast and thin. He'd…Sam…him and Sam. And he'd _wanted_ it, wanted Sam like that….

The pounding at the door snapped him back to the here and now. Dean barely got a chance to unwrap himself from Sam and throw some pants on before the door flew open and Lou and a few of his guys crowded into the kitchen. Dean stood there with his pants half done up and cursed to himself. This was it. His final fuck-up, staring him in the face.

None of them made a move once they were in the place, no one said a word. The silence stretched out as Louie just stared at Dean for a long minute—something almost like fatherly and worried in his eyes. He pulled at the suspenders stretched over his belly before heaving out a gusty sigh. "Get dressed. The boss wants ta see ya. Now. Not you, Sam," he barked, pointing at Sam. "You stay your ass in here."

"What? What?" Sam yelped from the bedroom door, yanking on an undershirt and trying to button his pants at the same time. "What the hell, Louie?"

"Puddy…it's better you stay here. Just—stay. Dean, tell 'im to stay put."

Dean pushed past Sam back into their room, dressed quickly as he could, yanked a brush through his hair and hoped it was good enough. Sam grabbed him and straightened his tie, muttering, "I'm coming with, so nuts to you an' Louie." 

"Sam, for once in your life, do what I stay. Stay here. Stay safe." Dean shoved the Colt Assasi had given him into the shoulder holster and licked dry lips. "Please."

"But—A wanted this! He made it happen, he can't take Dean, Dean did what he wanted—" Sam shouted at Louie. 

Dean stalked back out to the kitchen, grabbed his hat and jerked his chin at Louie. Sam was all over his back, babbling something about Assasi and not making much sense and why couldn't he just shut up when Dean needed him to….

Louie just shook his head and looked sad, like Sam was raving. He glanced back to Dean, tilted his head towards Sam and walked out of the apartment, shooing his men out with him. "Two minutes, Dean, the boss is waitin'."

"Sam…just…fuck. Stay here, okay? Just stay." He took a step towards the door, took a deep breath, and turned back to Sam, grabbed the collar of his undershirt and yanked him forward. He kissed Sam, a deep, wet, desperate kiss that left him light-headed and on impulse bit down, hard enough to break skin. Sam staggered back, gasping, his eyes wide and glittering. His lower lip was flushed dark pink and swelling a bit. He swept his tongue over it, licked up a drop of blood and shuddered. Dean stared at him, run through with a spike of horror—shame that he'd done that, made his brother bleed, but Sam cursed and pushed him away when he tried to apologize. 

"Please, Sam…I love you, okay? And…"

"Don’t say it, damn it! Don’t you say it!" Sam whirled back into the bedroom and slammed the door. 

"God help us," Dean muttered, scrubbed his face to the point his cheeks felt burnt and walked out the door, ran almost into Louie who was waiting on the landing. "Here I am, ready as I'll ever be, I guess."

"Nothin's gonna happen to ya, Dean-O. Promise."

Dean laughed. He'd have felt a whole lot better if Louie'd sounded more convinced.

* * * * * *

"Dean, what happened out there?" Assasi tilted his head back, and stared down his nose at Dean. His face held no clues as to what he was thinking but Dean had a pretty good idea. He clenched his hands, his fuckin' tie felt like a noose around his neck. He wished like hell he could loosen the damn thing, or unbutton his collar…Dean bit the inside of his cheek. _Pay attention, you dope, this is yer fuckin' *life* on the fuckin' line…._

Louie stepped up, angled himself so that he was halfway sort of shielding Dean from Assasi's glare. He looked almost as nervous as Dean felt, but he brought himself up to his full height and stared right back at A. "Mr. Assasi, sir, Dean din' do nuttin' wrong. He saw my guys were in it, an' he jumped in, like a standup guy. He done good." Louie looked at Dean and nodded firmly, before confronting A again. "I'll stand up for 'im, like I'd stand up for anya my soldiers. I—"

"Louie…?"

"Yessir, Mr. A?"

"Scram."

Louie stood open-mouthed, cut a glance at Dean and Dean swallowed hard. Didn't move an inch, waiting with Assasi until Louie shut the door quietly behind him. 

Dean was still standing in front of A's desk, and Assasi came around it to stand in front of Dean. Dean dropped his head and waited for…whatever came next. Could be anything. Could be just a beating and then whisky passed around the crew, and he'd have a few new scars but he'd walk away from it. Or it could be something more permanent; A might take a finger, a thumb…an eye. And then it'd be back to working for Boggs or worse and hopefully just him and not Sam, too. Or maybe the long ride, out past the railroad tracks and ending in a shallow grave. He knew all about that Long Ride, he'd been the driver a couple of times on those runs and it still crawled under his skin…until what he'd done that night with Lou's guys, it used to wake him up at night, them mooks crying, shitting themselves, in the graves they'd dug for themselves. He'd never had to watch the kill shot….

So. What happened to him next depended on how badly he'd fucked up and how bad he'd queered Assassi's plans to drive Moe Kennedy into the ground. Dean stared at the tips of his shoes and prayed to something, someone, that his baby brother would come out of it all okay. That he wouldn't take it into his stubborn, fool head to try and avenge Dean for…whatever happened.

"Hey," Assasi said and Dean jumped, flushed and felt like a fool for doing it. He'd missed whatever Assasi'd said to him but Assasi repeated it patiently. 

"I said, gimme your gun."

A fist of ice lodged in Dean's throat. So it was gonna be like that. He looked down and pulled his gun free of the holster and smoothed his jacket back into place. He looked A right in the eyes as he passed over the pretty little Colt, warm and smooth in his palm and he'd killed a man with it, and not even to protect Sam, just to save his own skin…and what a waste that was, since Assasi was about to punch his ticket. He kept his eyes firmly on Assasi's. He might be a stupid fuck-up, but he wasn't no pussy. A wasn't going to shoot him on his knees.

Just as the butt hit A's hand, Dean heard a commotion out in the hall, yelling and thumping, and he groaned, "Sam, you idiot…" 

Assasi smiled at him. "Sounds like Puddy's gotta some kin'a beef out there."

"Yeah. Well." Dean swallowed, watched the hands that had gripped his shoulders and palmed the back of his neck work the action on his—the Colt. He blinked away a bead of sweat, forced his breathing still, forced himself to ignore Sam screaming his name out in the hall, Louie yelling for his crew to take him down and hold him. He licked his lips and begged Assasi, "Don't hurt him. Don't hurt Sam. Please."

"It was supposed ta be a milk run. No mess, no fuss, snatch the booze and scram but. Man got shot. Made it messy, eh?" A gave him that head-tilt look, that long, deep stare that worked it's way right into Dean's soul. "Whataya think's gonna happen here, Dean?" he waved the gun, and then ejected the clip. "This has gotta disappear. You don' wan' this no more." He dropped the gun on his desk. "We'll get ya a new one. Don' worry 'bout it. Welcome to the Family." He pressed his thumb against Dean's forehead, slid it softly to his temple and finally laid his palm against Dean's cheek. "You're my solider now, full-blooded solider. We're tied, you an' me." 

Dean blinked, heard A's words from a fuzzy distance. He tried to understand what just happened…A didn't want to kill him. Sam was _safe._ Safer. And he hadn't fucked up as bad as he'd thought. He heard Sam, still screaming his name in the hall, and his eyes tracked back to A, who smiled like Dean was his well-loved son. He pulled Dean close, kissed his cheek and murmured, "You're at my side, right behind Louie, from now on. Now go stop your brother from skippin' alla way off the tracks…go celebrate. Whatever you decide to do, it's all on me." He winked and stepped back, pushed Dean towards the door. "Go, _mio soldato._ "

* * * * * *

Dean barely shut the door on Assasi's study before Sam launched himself down the length of the hallway, ignoring Louie and his crew trying to hold him back. His hair was wild, in his face, in his eyes—his tie half undone and twisted up under his collar and he had a long red welt on one cheek. Dean glared at Louie and his men but they were in the same ragged shape as Sam. At least the kid out up a good fight, Dean thought, and couldn't help the grin that wanted to break through.

Sam slammed into Dean, and almost knocked him down. He grabbed Dean, threw one arm around Dean's neck, grabbed for Dean's face with his free hand. "Dean! Brother—you okay? He didn't hurt you none, did he? Lemme see," he babbled and wrenched Dean's chin from one side to the other, eyes blazing. He ran his hands down Dean's ribs, his arms, ignoring Dean trying to bat his hands away.

"Lay off, Sam, geez. I'm all right—leggo, willya!"

"Dean." Sam said and his voice cracked. He leaned so his forehead was pressed against Dean's, wrapped his hands around Dean's wrists. He breathed a sigh of relief and said again, "Dean." And pressed his mouth to Dean's.

Dean stood stock still, frozen in shock. Sam's mouth on his, a touch no stronger than the brush of a moth's wing but still. He'd kissed him, and there was no way to mistake it for the kind of kiss it was, no matter how soft. Sam had _kissed_ him, right in front of Louie's men. Louie's men…who weren't in the hall anymore. 

They were alone, and Dean figured Sam had known that when he kissed him but Dean hadn't, and he'd let it happen. Sam opened his eyes and gazed at Dean. "I wasn't sure…I was pretty sure, but…you're okay, Dean."

Sam threw both his arms around Dean's neck and pressed his face in the very soft bit of skin between Dean's collar and his jaw, nuzzled in and Dean's eyes fell closed. "Yeah, Sammy, I'm okay."

  
[ ](http://pics.livejournal.com/roxymissrose/pic/000caq31/)   



	6. Chapter 6

What happened next was a lesson Sam absorbed, a lesson in what power really was.

[ ](http://pics.livejournal.com/roxymissrose/pic/000caq31/)

Sam sat like a mannequin in the back seat of Dean's— _Assasi's—_ car, hands folded in his lap, quietly impressed by the feel of the bespoke suit hugging his shoulders, the slipper-feel of his spit-polished shoes. He settled the little yellow silk handkerchief in his pocket for the hundredth time and ignored Assasi's fond smirk as he did. He could get used to high class threads like this. He couldn't wait for the day he could put Dean in threads like this. He could imagine Dean's broad shoulders in a jacket like this, them walking chins-up in the street, in a city that belonged to them, together....

He turned his head to the window, closed his eyes. That was a dream today, sure, but someday, it'd be their lives.

* * * * * * 

The drive into the city passed in near silence. Louie muttered occasionally to the punk sitting next to him in the front seat, who grunted in response. Assasi stared out the window, face blank and empty as an unwritten page. Sam sneaked a hand to his chest, pressed down to feel his heart beating so fast it scared him. What if this didn't work? What if A was wrong and Moe Kennedy wouldn't be satisfied with less than blood? There were rules...how was Sam supposed to get at the fucking mick if he wanted Dean's blood? Without backup, how was he gonna kill Big Moe before he hurt Dean? Sam's eyes burned behind his eyelids. Tears wanted to come but his eyes were dry. He took a quiet breath, but it seemed Assasi heard—anyway the blank look receded, his face shifting as he came back from wherever he'd gone. He patted Sam's knee absently. "Soon," was all he said. It was enough to settle Sam—at least slow his galloping heartbeat.

Assasi's big cream car rolled through light after light until finally, the Packard slowed, came to a stop at the curb. Sam peered through the window, neck craning to stare up at a big, gray stone building. Its columns and crest and arches were dark with the grime of coal smoke, of years of neglect. 

"This is the place, this is where we fix it," Assasi told Sam, voice colored with satisfaction. Sam blinked, licked paper dry lips. Dean's future was about to be decided in that stone hulk. He smoothed the yellow handkerchief for the hundredth time, made sure it neat. This was it.

The door creaked slightly as Louie's man stepped out, came around to the back to open the door for Assasi. His coat gapped slightly and the morning sun flared off the gat he had shoved into a shoulder holster. Wasn't pretty as Dean's, Sam thought. Nothing about the punk was as pretty as Dean. Fuck, no one was.

Sam dropped his gaze to the front seat, where Dean should be. His brother should be behind the wheel, giving Sam a huge grin and a green wink. Instead he was in lock-down at A's and Louie was sitting in his place, looking uncomfortable under Sam's gaze. Sam softened his expression. Louie was worthy family, had done nothing wrong. Sam rubbed his dry, gritty eyes and reminded himself that as much as possible, he loved Louie. This was all gonna work out. It had to. Dean was going to be safe. Hadn't he promised his brother before he'd left that morning? Mr. A would fix it; everything was going to be copacetic again. 

"Mr. A—Boss—me and Cocker here, we can come up, lean on 'em a bit—" Louie spoke to Assasi but his eyes were on Sam.

Assasi turned to Sam, an indulgent smile softening the knife-sharp angles of his face. He skimmed the lapel of Sam's suit, a gentle touch ending with his fingers in the ends of Sam's thick hair. "Nah. Me and the boy here, we got a handle on this. It'll be good for him to see just how the deals are run in this city, where the power lies."

Louie's eyebrows pulled together, his eyes still on Sam. Sam frowned a little at the old man's odd look—worry? And maybe guilt and a bit of sadness; that puzzled Sam. Why be sad? This was going to be good, for everyone. They'd make a deal for Dean and it'd all be fixed and then life could go on as usual, maybe better now that Dean was A's made man. 

An image of Dean, sobbing and crouched in a tub filled with bloody water shook him, made him warm. In his mind, Dean looked up at him, emerald green eyes spilling over, tears washing streaks through crusted blood. The image shifted to Dean spent and spread out across his bed, his milky skin dusted with golden flecks, his dick soft, heavy in the palm of Sam's wet hand….

"Hey, you with me, Sam? Ready to go to the mats for your brother, Puddy?" 

A's hand came down on Sam's knee, it tightened as Sam smiled back at him. Dean was shoved to the back of his mind—he'd take that image out later—hell, he'd make it happen. Later. His chin came up, he felt light enough to float, his blood percolating through his veins. "If it comes to that," Sam said, "I'm ready, all right—with both hands full, Mr. A."

Assasi laughed softly. "Nah, s'not gonna come to that, kid. We got this city right here," he said and made a cupping-squeezing motion with his hands. "We're gonna get Dean what he needs and that means getting you what you need, eh?"

[ ](http://pics.livejournal.com/roxymissrose/pic/000caq31/)

Assasi swept into the police commissioner's office like it was his right. They sailed past his secretary, her red mouth gaping like a fish on the hook. She stumbled around her desk, yelling stop, stop—Assasi broke through the doors and made a beeline to the single leather chair set front and center of the Commissioner's desk. He settled himself with a smile. Sam played the role A had given him. He came to a stop at A's right shoulder, trying to project a cool and collected look—like he belonged right there next to Assasi. He caught a glimpse of himself the glass window behind the desk. Yeah—he could get used to drapes like this.

Commissioner Wagner jumped to his feet, ready to shout down the intruder in his domain, until he met Assasi's eyes. He froze, like a rat in a cobra's crosshairs. Sam noted the effort it took for the big man to relax, to toss A a careless smile. 

"Well, well, Mr. Assasi. Ain't it a funny coincidence that here you are in my office and just when Big Moe had himself a bit of trouble and some unwelcome attention drawn to hisself. Heard he lost one of his boys last night. Not that it was much of a loss," Wagner shrugged and rummaged through a battered humidor on his desk. Made a bit of business out of extracting and lighting a foul smelling cigar. Assasi frowned at Wagner but sat motionless. Sam leaned away from the desk and the Commissioner allowed himself a small smile. He blew a thick stream of smoke toward the ceiling, said, "The gunsel was unconnected—just blooded. Good shot though, from what I heard. Though I guess Winchester's boy was a better one. At least he's got that—bad seed, that kid, Winchester senior said so himself. Said he'd never amount to much, said the boy was only good for one thing. Rest his soul," Wagner said without the slightest bit of emotion.

_No one talks about my brother like that,_ Sam bristled. He wanted to cut the mick's fuckin' tongue out. He shoved his hand into his pocket; his fingers twitched the length of his blade. Assasi rolled his head languorously to the side, caught Sam's eye and held it, warning clear. 

_Don't move, don't breathe, don't give anything away. Or else._

Sam laid a rock steady hand on the back of A's chair. He was insulted that Assasi had even bothered to warn him. The rage that roared through Sam had been there most of his life. He was no dummy. Wasn't like he didn't know when to hold it close and when he could let go.

Assasi leaned back in the chair. Twitching the crease in his pants straight, he said, "That Winchester boy you laid your mouth all over is _mine._ When you see that boy, you see my son, Dean. This here is my _other_ son, Samuel. Say hello, Sam." 

Sam aimed a smirk at the astonished commissioner. Hell, Sam was some surprised himself. There was no surprise in A claiming Dean—Sam expected at some point he would. Claim him as family. Sam's gut burned, thinking of the ways he suspected Assasi wanted to claim Dean. No, what surprised him was Assasi laying claim to _him_ as well, especially like this in public. Interesting. 

Wagner stared at Sam, his eyebrows climbing near off his head. "Is that so? Well, well. I'm pleased to meet you, young Mr. Assasi. Your father is a very impressive man." Wagner smirked. "He makes fruit bloom in the dessert, he does. Crops out of nowhere. I suppose I was misinformed as to your parentage."

Assasi leaned back in a more comfortable manner. "Sam and Dean both retain their last name from respect. But it makes no difference; we know who they belong to now."

"Well now, your "son" turned the heat up on Clancy Avenue, didn't he? I know Louie didn’t give the okay for a non-made man to sling lead around in my alley."

"And now he's made and not only made, he's blood family." Assasi took a slim cigarette case out of an inside pocket. He lit a cigarette and blew a few thin smokes rings into the air. "You know, life is about change, without change, things go stagnant. Entropy. Things…die. My man Louie, he knows about change, how quickly it comes, how…silently. He's a student of change." Assasi grinned and Sam huffed quietly. Listened to Assasi's accent come and go and chuckled softly to himself. People were fools. 

"What about you, Commissioner?" Assasi said. "How do you feel about change?"

Wagner stared back, swallowed hard. All the bluster he'd had when Assasi swung into his office had slowly wilted with every word Assasi spoke, every gesture he made. And now he'd fixed the commissioner with a mild, inquiring look and the man looked like he wanted to throw up. Sam took in the way the man folded. He watched what happened—the way it happened—like it was a first-run at the Odeon. 

Sam noted the way Assasi hadn't made a threatening move, how he'd never raised his voice, and how that in itself was threatening. Sam nodded. Took it all in—the way Assasi sat, the way he smiled, the way his eyes glowed, like amber in sunlight and cold, colder than ice—here was the real power in the city. Sam stood behind A's right shoulder like he belonged there. He gave Wagner a smile of his own, and if he could have seen his own face, he would have laughed. Such smooth, still slightly rounded cheeks, punctuated with a crocodile smile….

When A snapped his fingers and asked, "What did we move into the city at the end of August, Samuel? What was the department's cut?" Sam spit it out like he kept the books instead of parroting what Assasi gave him to say. "Be a shame to cut all that out, wouldn't it, Sam?" 

Sam nodded, "Sure would, Mr. A," he said and improvised a bit. "But if you're gonna eat steak, ya cut the fat off."

Assasi smiled and said that was true and a small, dim flame bloomed in Sam's chest. A told Wagner that between the two of them they could cut a deal for Dean that would benefit the cops and magnanimously offered to up their cut a bit, over what Big Moe paid them. Wagner nodded, fat cheeks creasing with what was supposed to be a smile—the man cracked down the center, Sam thought. It was pretty to see. 

The meeting came to an end. Assasi contributed generously to the Policeman's Benevolent Society and those crocodile smiles were shared evenly. Sam played the last of his part in the deal, silently passed the envelope Assasi had given him earlier to the Commissioner. Blood money, marked for Dean. Sam promised himself he'd find out what was most important to this man, what he needed to live. Because a day would come when he'd make that man bargain for what made _his_ life worth living, and it was going to be so, so much fun. Sam rolled his shoulders, let the feeling sink into him, examined it—he was a part of the life now, almost as much as Dean. This day…he'd been made himself, in a way. No matter where he went now, people would know he was A's. 

For now. 

"Well, that concludes business, eh?" Assasi held his hand up. "Sam, how 'bout you run down to the car, get us a few cigars. And tell Louie ta give you the top shelf I got in the trunk. This _gavone_ don't know how to drink." A smiled at Wagner as Sam left the room. He shut the door on Assasi yammering away in that now-you-hear-me-now-you-don't accent. Sam was fuming, choking down his anger. He knew that there was other business going on now, and he should be a part of that, too. 

Sam was sure that what was said in his absence had to be important but…he took a deep breath and took off for the car. He'd get the skinny from someone, Assasi or Louie, or one of his men.

[ ](http://pics.livejournal.com/roxymissrose/pic/000caq31/)

The door closed and Wagner started to tear open the envelope.

Assasi sighed. "There's nothing in there but newspaper, ya mook. So. We don’t want a war right now. That's not in my plans. Tell me how I keep Moe in check."

"We give him Winchester's get—I mean your, ah, your boy. I—I don't really see no other way, not without me losing a shitload of my cops trying to keep order."

Assasi nodded, looking thoughtful. "Okay. They'll make it quick on him?"

The commissioner shrugged, sweat dampened his collar, red swept up his neck. "Well…well, no. It won't be. They're gonna wanna make a lesson of him. But it's the risk of business. We all know that. I understand that you've taken the boy in but…but it's just the cost of business, it's a fact, Mr. Assasi." 

Assasi nodded again before leaning forward in his chair, a look of concentration on his face. "Alright. Now listen. This is how we're gonna play it. We're gonna make a lotta noise about justice and fair play. Then, my boy does a stretch on the Hill. A sweet rap, nothin' heavy. Say, self-defense. I call the shots on the stretch. Tell Moe's consigliore that I'll step back; I won’t touch anything they got. I won't go through the city and kill every last one of their brats. We made a mistake and we'll eat it—I cede that section of the territory back to him. I don’t want no war. But I'm not gonna sacrifice my boy for it."

"But—"

A stood and leaned over the desk. He stuck his finger into the pudge under the chief's neck. "You don’t know us, man. You think you do, but you don't. You don’t know _me._ You think I'm some—" A waved his hand through the air. "Some old-country _chooch,_ some thug in a suit. You have no idea. If I decide you need to come visit the brownstone, you will _never_ come out. No _piece_ of you will ever come out. Do we understand each other?"

[ ](http://pics.livejournal.com/roxymissrose/pic/000caq31/)

Sam knew something had happened when he let himself back in the room, something that he was going to hate. Assasi looked at him, his whiskey-tinted eyes gleaming, reflecting back the sun in such a way they appeared yellow. He blinked, slowly, and his expression was…content, like he'd eaten a big meal. Sam fumbled the box of Cubans—the bottle Louie had given him slipped through his fingers and hit the floor with a crack.

Sam knew what Assasi had done, the backstabbing chiseler. He'd been betrayed. It burned through him like a lightning bolt. Sam opened his mouth to protest, to scream—whatever the man had done, Sam knew it meant that he'd lost Dean. Sam had failed the only thing in this life he truly _wanted._ Loved.

Assasi stood. "Leave it, Sam. We're going." He put a hand on Sam's shoulder and pushed slighlty. That touch filled Sam with a rage so deep it took his breath away for a long, dark moment. Sam let himself be guided out to the car, let himself be locked into the back seat with the man he was pretty sure had just burned every good thing in his life to the ground.

* * * * * * 

They sat in the back of the Packard, and A had Louie roll the privacy window up before turning to Sam. His hand was on Sam's knee and this time there was nothing calming about it. It burned to the bone, his touch so ice-cold it blackened flesh like fire. "Dean's going away, Sam," he said, with all the emotion of a dead thing.

 _"Why?"_ Blood pounded against the back of Sam's eyes, pain filled Sam's head. His heart fluttered and clenched like it wanted to stop. His hand shot out and planted against the back of the driver's seat in front of him. He needed something in his hand, something, _anything,_ to stop him from jumping on Assasi and choking him until his eyes burst.

"I'll make sure Dean lands in Haddeston Correctional--The Hill." Assasi said, still calm, distanced, "It'll be easier time than your old man had, I promise you that."

Sam chopped his hand through the air like A's words were ridiculous, beneath notice. "You said he wouldn' get _no_ time, you said he was fine. Why'd ya fuckin' lie ta me, ya chislin' bastard— _why?"_ he shouted.

"Sam, Sam, Sam. Did you really think Dean would get away scot-free? Between the two of us, tell me, did you _really_ believe it?"

Sam swallowed, his eyes dropped. He shook his head, a minute movement but he was aware that Assasi felt him collapse in that moment. _Fucking Dean, fucking always…_ making Sam weak. Sam glared down at his hands and tears pricked his eyes. "He killed a man…what happens now?" Fear made his tongue dry; a taste like zinc filled his mouth.

"Self-defense. He had to pull the trigger or die. Maybe…ten years."

Sam gasped, black percolated in the corners of his eyesight. "Ten years. No."

Assasi held his hands up. "Less—years off for good behavior. Sam, everyone owes me. Dean will be as safe as he can be."

Sam laughed wetly. Safe as he can be. Without Sam at his side, what would happen to Dean?

"And you," Assasi said, "are going to protect your brother the best way you can—" he tossed a brochure for Harvard law school in his lap. "That's what you'll be doing. You study hard, put him first, and Dean will be out and safe in no time. Because you're gonna get him out. _Capish?"_

Sam looked up at Assasi. Looked right into his satisfied smiling face. Struggled hard, and won, to give Assasi a smile of his own. "Yes sir. I understand perfectly."

[ ](http://pics.livejournal.com/roxymissrose/pic/000caq31/)


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This section contains a brief courtroom scene, of the blink-and-miss-it variety. I tell you right now, the sum total of my legal knowledge consists of me watching Law & Order out of the corner of my eye.

[ ](http://pics.livejournal.com/roxymissrose/pic/000caq31/)

The car rolled to a stop right inside the open garage doors. Sam waited for Assasi to climb out. He kept his eyes glued to the floorboard, blocking out the quiet murmuring between Louie and A. The punk, still parked in the front seat—Cocker—turned slightly and gave Sam a sympathetic smile. Sam glanced up, finally recognizing him. Right, this guy was one of the boys who'd gone with him…but not too far, this one. Nervous. Scared. There'd been, once or twice, mutual hand jobs in the shadows of Mr. A's garden, at least until Sam had lost interest. It'd been…kind of a dare, just Sam seeing how far he could push someone who didn't really bend the way Sam did. Thinking about the boy's face twisted in fearful pleasure made sent a little stream of warmth snaking down his gut….

And now, here was that same little punk, smiling that sad, sappy smile that made Sam want to tell him to shove his sympathy where the sun didn't shine. Common sense kept his lips zipped—even worried out of his mind over Dean, Sam was no idiot. He gave the kid a watery smile instead, and curled his hand over the seat back. The kid covered Sam's hand with his—squeezed—a tentative but warm pressure. 

"Don’t you worry much, Sam. Mr. Sam…uh, Sam," the punk—Cocker—said, wide forehead wrinkling slightly in confusion. He knew Sam was getting to be a big deal in the organization, but wasn't completely sure how big, or what exactly his position _was…_ still, when Sam flipped his hand over and linked his fingers briefly with Cocker's, the kid smiled wide, his eyes held…concern, respect…and maybe a touch of fear. That was good, that was swell. Hell, if Sam had all that from the punk, then he held him in the palm of his hand. Sam squashed down a grin…in hand again, he guessed. Anyway, Sam could tell, Cocker saw Sam's loyalty to Dean, and it made quite the impression on him. Sam bet dollars to donuts, when the time came, he'd have Assasi's man at his back. 

"Don’t you worry much," the kid went babbling on—"because Mr. A'll make it right, betcha. And Mr. Dean, well, he's a hellofa fighter, he is. Class act alla way. He does time, he'll show 'em all how ta do it."

Sam smiled again, squeezed Cocker's hand one last time before pulling his fingers free. Assasi was gone, back to the townhouse, and Louie was at the open car door. He held it open for Sam, like he'd hold it for Assasi, soft cheeks flushed a dull pink and his mouth twisted in a frown that sure wasn't aimed Sam's way.  
He stepped back to let Sam out. Dropped a heavy hand on Sam's shoulder, patted it once or twice before whipping loose the square of silk in his jacket pocket. Mopped his face as he sighed, "Listen, Puddy, don't worry none, hear? Everythin's gonna turn up roses, 'swear. 'S'all gonna be alright." He nodded decisively, crumbled the handkerchief and shoved into his pant's pocket. 

"Everyone keeps telling me that, Lou, but I don’t see how," Sam said. "They gonna take Dean away and I won’t have nothin'. Nothin'." 

Sam jerked away from Lou when he tried to pat Sam again. He raced up the stairs to where Dean was waiting. 

"Send yer brother down," Lou called to him. "The Boss wants ta speak wit 'em."

Sam whirled around at the landing before their door, every nerve on fire, twanging like over-tightened violin strings. He felt desperate, wild, and about to explode….

He had no idea what was on his face but Louie, who loved the both of them like sons, Louie took a step back. His face paled, pink flush going the color of milk. The man blinked, swallowed, croaked out, "Yeah, well…don’ take too long, y'hear? Boss only got patience for so long." He wheeled around and headed for the garage doors, the baby-faced gunsel trotting after him. 

Sam stared after them for a moment, before he flung himself at the door and tore it open.

* * * *

Dean was sprawled on the small settee that once upon a time, they'd found on the street and hauled up the stairs, those first weeks they'd come to live with Assasi. Sam frowned, not overmuch pleased with the way he looked. Dean was blasting attitude like fucking radio; he was dressed like a street hustler: chinos and a too-tight tee shirt. A leather jacket, like the ones the flyboys used to wear, was thrown over the settee arm, and he was running the bill of a squashed down newsboy cap through his fingers. Even from where Sam stood, he could smell booze, smoke.

Dean twisted to look at Sam and his face creased in what was meant to be a grin. "Hey, little brother."

The floor lamp had only one bulb lit, casting most of Dean's face in shadow, lit the rest with a golden glow. He was an angel, he was Sam's life, his reason for living and breathing and his, his, _his—_ and now the world was trying to take him _away._ "Dean…" Sam felt like his heart was being ripped down the middle. 

"Nah, hey, Sam. Hey, it's gonna be okay. I fi-figured that Mr. A wouldn' be able ta get me off scot-free." He shrugged and tried to smile and Sam nearly jumped over the couch, rage making him light-headed.

"But—but _Dean—"_ He wanted to drag Dean off the damn settee and wipe that daft, foggy look off his mug, fuckin' looking like…like some crucified saint. Bastard.

"C'mon, Sam—but me no buts." Dean smirked at Sam's ferocious scowl, but that smirk quickly faded into a flat stare, all spark drained out of it. "Just—lemme talk to A, personal. Don't…don't do nothin' 'til I get back, okay?" He dragged himself upright, shrugged into the jacket and jammed the cap on, cocked it so it tilted over one eye. He winked, but without his usual wicked little light, it was just an act, and a poor one at that. 

"It'll be fine, kiddo. Come up aces all over again, just like we always do—trust me." He looped an arm around Sam's neck and pressed a kiss on his forehead. "Aces, right?"

Before Sam could speak, Dean was out the door and down the stairs heading towards Assasi. "I do trust you," Sam whispered, "It's A I don’t trust, far as I can throw that chiselin' mug."

[ ](http://pics.livejournal.com/roxymissrose/pic/000caq31/)

Walking into Assasi's study hit Dean's stomach like freefall in an elevator—happened nearly every time he entered A's private world.

Assasi was sitting at his battleship of a desk, wreathed in darkness. As far as Dean knew, no natural light had ever lit the room, at least not ever that he could remember. The thick blue drapes were pulled to, as usual, little lamps threw dim light in the room—just enough to pick out A's sharp features, and make his eyes glow amber. 

He smiled at Dean and jerked a thumb towards the wingchair parked in front of his desk. A half-full glass already stood on the little table next to one arm, something not made out of grain alcohol and color and who knows what by the smell of it. Dean sat and wrapped both hands round the heavy tumbler, took a serious belt. It was scotch all right, top shelf stuff—the real deal. He wasn't even sure he wanted to know how A came by it when the rest of the mooks were drinking bath tub gin….

"So, _raggazzo._ We got business to hash out, eh..." Assasi sighed heavily, the very picture of sorrow. "Went a few rounds 'bout this problem of ours with that _sfaccimme_ Wagner but…we got nothing. Eh, smart guy like you, you figured that, am I right?"

The hot path the scotch had burned down his throat turned to ice. Dean sat there, staring at Assasi, silent because…there were no words. He knew what was coming, the truth…not the big words, the careless shrug, no world-weary laugh or shaking the head. This was it. First step into hell…the world tilted; Dean felt achingly empty and too full at once. He'd thought he was prepared for the worst outcome, thought he'd handle it like he always did…but Assasi had shattered that bubble, was telling him— _no hope._ Jail time. Jail time in a prison practically filled to the brim with Big Moe's mooks. No matter how many fingers A had in the pot, Dean would be on the floor, surrounded by his father's killers. What could he say that didn't start and end in screaming?

He gripped the glass, slung back another splash of scotch—tried to pull the ragged bits of himself together. He heard Assasi's voice, like it was coming up from deep water….

"But it won’t be all bad, Dean-o. Short time, time you can do easy. Nothing like yer old man did. You go in there, hook up with my people. Let everyone know that you're my man. That you stepped up. And that I took care'a you."

"How long?" Dean whispered.

Assasi shrugged. "Coupl'a years. Not more'n ten."

"Ten?" Dean gasped, a hot roil of nausea rushed up his throat. Almost gagged him. "Ten years?" he choked, trying not to imagine a life avoiding Moe's thumb breakers . _Ten…Jesus._ He'd be thirty before he ever breathed free again—Sam would be grown, used to life without him—

"Ten," Assasi nodded. "For manslaughter, that's the minimum. See, I can't afford ta go ta war with Big Moe, not yet. I need ta get all the ducks in a row, need to have your place nailed down, Sam's as well."

_Sam…_ Dean jerked back to the here and now. "What about my brother?"

"Dean, Dean, Dean. Don't you know Sammy's taken care of? I'll always watch over him, just like he's my own. He'll always have a place at the table, sitting pretty to my right, like it should be."

Dean nodded sadly. Sam was gonna be okay—if he bent that stiff neck of his and did what Mr. A said. Now it was going to be someone else's job to make sure Sam did just that. Lou maybe, Sam loved Louie. As much as he could love anyone not Dean. 

"Okay, now what?" he asked. "Trial…?"

"You're gonna plead guilty. You're a model citizen, a upstandin' guy caught inna wrong place, a wrong time. The judge is gonna listen. He better. I got him in the bag." Assasi winked and flicked a gold dollar on his desktop. It spun like a top, glittering, catching Dean's eye—it spun and spun as Dean watched, flickered and burned yellow, bronze, yellow, bronze—

Dean dragged his eyes away and back to Assasi's, tried to smile but a hot flush rose up his neck, into his face—his chin went weak and wobbled and he hoped to god A didn’t see him just about bawl like a little bitch. 

Assasi palmed the coin, leaned back in his chair. "Tell ya what, Dean-o. You gwan, beat it back home. Calm that brother of yours down 'cause I know he's about ready to tear tha walls down. We'll get a game plan together tomorrow. My lawyers are gonna make it good as possible. And know this—I see the sacrifice you're makin' here, I know you give it freely, _and_ I don’t forget. I'm a lot of things, but I'm not a liar. I'll never lie to ya, Dean, not you, not Sam. You come out; you come out as my ready right hand. 

Dean flinched. He swore for a moment Assasi had said 'red right hand', until his brain caught up with his ears. Ready. Of course. But…hadn't he said Sam was going to be his right hand? Maybe they would be…together.

* * * *

Dean left Assasi's office but instead of going right back to the apartment, he cut out the front door, past A's guys lounging on the townhouse's marble steps. He remembered how terrified he'd been the first time he'd come to Mr. A. How he thought he'd died and gone to heaven when Assasi let him touch those beautiful cars. _"Bello raggazino,"_ A had called him and Dean had sort of…kind of…fallen in love.

Yeah. A little.

With barely a nod to them, ignoring curious eyes, he headed up the street, no actual destination in mind, just…walking. 

 

Walking, breathing, feeling fresh air on his skin and a breeze in his hair. He walked steady—fast—until he looked up and found he was downtown, passed on all sides by people about their businesses, going about life. Surrounded by people who didn’t know him and didn't give a shit about him, he slowed some, ankled past a deli him and Sam favored like he was on a Sunday stroll.

Dean reached in his jacket pocket for his cigarette tin. He flipped one out and lipped it, snapped a match head with his nail in a practiced move. He set the gasper to the flame and inhaled, deeply, held it for a moment, then let the smoke drift out of his nose, his mouth, on a sigh…grey tendrils thinned into nothing as they rose. He blew out smoke and breathed in good smells: fresh baked bread, meats, cheeses, hints of different spices—the smells Sam'd grown up with, well, at least since throwing in with Mr. A. 

A lot of good came out of this life with Assasi, a lot of stuff that'd been important to him and Sammy back then, like running to Swan's for sandwiches for A's guys, always getting a little extra cash to get whatever him and Sam wanted. Knowing they could go to Faye's luncheonette for ice cream sodas whenever they felt like it, fuckin' Faye's, best sodas in the world…he crossed the street, down to the next corner and past another store—Shafer's, the place they'd go for penny candy when they could, still did when Sam was in the mood. Dean stared at the candy shop's red and gold window and remembered. Little, round-cheeked, pudgy Sammy, clutching his bag of taffies and lemon drops, god, he'd been so sweet. So young. Dean shook his head. Young, but never innocent, no matter how much he'd wanted it to be so.

He dropped the butt, ignored until the cherry burned his knuckles. "Shit," he muttered. Sudden warmth streaking his cheeks startled him. He hastily dragged a sleeve over his face, rubbing punishingly hard. He wasn't crying—at least, not for himself, fuck that. He was crying for Sam, his baby brother, who was going to be alone. 

Dean walked a little faster, past the nice shops with cheery signs, past the neat, clean doorways and windows hung with pots of flowers. He was headed down, into a darker, grimier part of the city, heading in the direction of what they used to call home. 

He skirted across the outer edge of the nearly silent fish market—closed to business until dawn, but something was always happening there, booths set up, ice brought in—a few heads turned his way but either he looked like a regular joe or he was known, he got a nod or two but mostly was ignored. Safer that way. In his mind, little Sammy raced around the stalls, kicking a can as he ran, laughing at the curses the young fishmongers flung after him.

Walking even faster now, Dean cut between side-streets and alleyways and it wasn't long until he found himself in a familiar place. He headed down a non-descript street between a row of darkened warehouses. Came out at the mouth of it to honky-tonk music, voices raised—Dean heard laughing, heard screaming—ignored it all. He rubbed his nose at the stink of rancid garbage and booze, cabbage and horseshit—the familiarity of it all was like a sharp, unpleasant punch to the gut.

Here he was, back in the old place. Back where they'd begun. Right there in front of him was the old 'gentleman's club'. He stared at the windows, the punks going in and out the double glass doors. Dean couldn't believe it was still there, almost five years later. He spit, hard, on the sidewalk. 

Alone and almost invisible under the shadow of the el, Dean stopped, leaned against the grimy wall behind him to watch the building across the street. He snagged another butt and flicked another match to life, his palm curved 'round to hide the flame. No sense advertizing his position…habit that, and a smart one. 

He smoked the cigarette down, eyes locked on that place. Remembered the things he'd done there, the things he'd had to do. For Sammy. Wondered idly if Boggs was still kickin'—he'd never asked A what happened to that fucking daisy diddler. Dean realized that he could ice Boggs cool and easy right now—with the big house in his lights and a ten year stretch that was a death sentence sure as shit, bein' dropped in the middle of big Moe's soldiers. Hell, he could draw it out nice and slow if he wanted to; he could toss dead old Boggy in the river to sleep with Percy and Albert, god if anyone deserved it, it was Boggs. Dean's breath hitched in his chest with a smothered sob. Percy, Albert, he hadn't thought of them in forever but tonight, with all this hanging over his head, he kept seeing their blank, dead eyes….

"Screw this, screw everything and alla this," he muttered and dropped the butt to the street, ground it into the concrete with his heel. _Fuck everything._

 

He huffed---better grab a drink, crunch a few mints before going back. Sam always had a hissy whenever he smelled smoke on Dean's clothes…like Sam was some kinda angel himself, Dean grinned ruefully. He shook his head, glanced once more at the building that in the long run, ended up being more good to them than not, the place their real life had more or less started in, and walked away. Home back to Sam. Back to whatever small bit of comfort he had until…until.

[ ](http://pics.livejournal.com/roxymissrose/pic/000caq31/)

It was dark in the kitchen when Dean came in, darker than when he'd left. He closed the door with a bang. Sam was there, straddling one of the kitchen chairs, his elbows planted on the table and both hands dug deep into his hair, gripping double handfuls. He jerked at the noise—his eyes were wild, green-blue, the color of the river in a storm. They glittered with tears and locked on Dean and, "Where have you _been,"_ he shouted—screamed—kicking his chair over in his rush to get at Dean. Before Dean could even lift his hands to hold him off, Sam had a death grip on Dean's shirt, nails raking down Dean's neck, his chest. Sam ignored Dean's surprised hiss of pain—he shook him until the tee shirt tore. "Where tha fuck you _been?_ You sonofabitch, left me here alone!"

They staggered around the kitchen, tripping over shattered plates and cups, sliding on a blizzard of pages and broken books. Dean slipped in a puddle of milk as he tried to duck Sam's flailing hands—struggling to get free without hurting his brother. 

Dean cursed when Sam managed to snap the tip of his ear—it burned like fire, and Dean hit back harder than he meant to. But it caught Sam's attention, cooled him down a little. The wild, wolf-like look in his eyes faded somewhat, the snarl twisting his lips eased and Sam transferred his grip to Dean's head. He pulled it down, tilting it as he inspected Dean's ear, pawed at the thick scratches on his throat and chest. He pulled his fingers away, both of them startled they came away smeared red.

"Sam," Dean whispered, "Sam, calm down, baby brother, okay? I talked to A and then, then after, I—I hadda go for a walk. I had to clear my head, y'know? Please, Sam." 

Sam was still so angry, so Dean stood still and let Sam push against him until his heart stopped beating so hard it felt like it was bruising Dean's chest, his breath slowed…Sam's eyes closed and opened in a long, slow blink. He took a half step back. "Dean," he said, as if he were coming back from some distant, confusing place. 

Dean chuckled weakly, and Sam narrowed his eyes at him, at least not clawing at him now. Dean eased Sam's fingers loose, took a step back himself. "I, ah—I ended up in the old neighborhood."

Sam made a small noise, his fingers slid up Dean's neck, smoothing his hair back into place, before coming to rest on Dean's cheek. "The old place, hunh?" he said finally, an expression of mild interest on his face. 

"Yeah…and you know what? I'm glad we got outta there. I got no regrets, Sam," Dean said and led Sam back to the table, not letting go of Sam's wrist even as they sat. "We'da died there, Sam, and you were right. You always been right. We're gonna get past this, kiddo. We're gonna do the time and come out tha other side and we're gonna fine, y'hear me? We're gonna be _fine."_

Tears were running down his face by the time his words stuttered to a stop and he wished like hell he could stop but they just kept running, like he was some damn broad. 

Sam's face was twisted in grief, at the point of tears himself. "Yeah, yeah, Dean—we're gonna be all right, sweartagod, we'll be okay…."

Dean surged up from his chair, crashed into Sam and Sam's arms wrapped around him like rope. They clung to each other, desperate and lost and scared, like the little boys they'd been in Boggy's basement. Having no one to turn to, no one to trust but each other.

[ ](http://pics.livejournal.com/roxymissrose/pic/000caq31/)

Dean dug his nose into that space under Sam's ear, that place that dipped slightly, seemed like it was made to fit his lips. He rested against Sam, just breathing…drinking in the smell and the feel of his brother. Didn’t want to admit to himself what he was trying to do—press this memory—the feel, the smell of Sam—into his mind, like slipping photos between the pages of a book.

He threw his head back with a curse, and dragged Sam to their bedroom, startling his brother into cursing himself. Dean grinned to himself—it was kinda nice to flap the unflappable, he thought. 

They pushed through the door of their little room. Dean flipped Sam around, his back to the bed, and eased him down. He took Sam's shoes off, then laid him out on their bed, a bed that should've been too small for two full grown men, he mused, but like everything in their screwy lives, they made it work. They had to. 

Dean toed his own shoes off, but when he made to lie down as well, Sam suddenly jerked away, sucked in a startled breath like he was coming from some place a million miles from there. When he shivered, kept shivering, Dean tried to wrap him up in the blankets, but Sam was having none of it. He forced Dean off of him. He rolled off the bed, pushed Dean out of his way—pushed Dean back and back until they stood in the center of their room. Sam laid hands on Dean again. Sam's icy fingers slid under his tee shirt, rucked it up until the shirt was trapped in Dean's armpits. Sam grinned at him, ghosting fingers up and down Dean's ribs. His eyes danced with mischief, his tongue was caught in his teeth—it was a look Dean had missed. His Sammy. 

"Hey!" Dean flapped his hands at his brother, playing at being annoyed, his mouth already set to laugh, until the whole of the situation became plain to him. Sam didn't want to tickle him until he cried. No, Sam had something entirely different in mind. "No, no, Sam don't—"

"Shhh. Quiet, you." Sam nudged him, making it plain he wanted Dean to lift his arms, so he did, let Sam pull his shirt off, dragging the under-shirt with it. "Shhh," he said and undid the buttons to Dean's chinos. Slowly, carefully, the tip of his tongue still caught between his teeth—the same look he'd get on his face doing his maths, long, long ago—Dean smothered a quivering kind of chuckle—so long gone by, it felt like a lifetime ago. 

He hardly noticed that Sam had gone to his knees, not until he'd got Dean's pants halfway down, the fabric bunching around his calves. He ran his hands up the inside of Dean's thighs, right under the loose legs of his boxers, stopping short of cupping his balls. Sam leaned forward, drew his nose lightly across the curve of Dean's hip, inhaling, then breathing out heat into the flimsy cotton. He drew back, hands lightly curved around Dean's knees, kissed one. 

"Bow-legged like a cowboy," Sam said, with a soft half-smirk before pressing his lips to each bowed calf. "My own Tom Mix."

Dean huffed a little laugh, looked down at his brother. On his knees—for him. Dean fell into Sam's smile, Sam's eyes; he was caught up by Sam hook, line, and sinker. Sam patted his thigh and that's when Dean noticed his pants were pooled around his ankles. Sam was still smiling up at Dean—tapped one knee and then the other, sliding the pants over Dean's feet and off, rolling down his socks, tossing them to the side, unbuttoning his boxer shorts and tossing them away as well. "You here, Dean? You with me?"

Dean's mouth went cotton-dry. He nodded, words dying in his throat and what the hell was he supposed to say anyway? He just…let Sam do what he wanted to. Like always and ever. "'m'here, Sam," he managed to whisper. He wanted to say 'but don’t, please don’t do that'…that would make him a liar, though. 

Because way, way, deep inside, there was a dark part of him that _loved_ this, always had. There was a part that always wanted go belly up for Sam, drink him in, drink him down. Under the tears and the horror at taking a life, there was something, some tiny bit of him that had sparked awake, faintly….just the tiniest bit. There was something in him that wanted, _needed_ Sam's total attention. Reveled in it….

Sam took a step back to look at Dean, and Dean felt he should be—embarrassed, something—but he just waited, hands hanging loose by his sides, feet spread just a bit, shoulders straight and his eyes locked with his brother's. He was aware of himself like never before; the even rise and fall of his chest, the steady thump of his heart, the jerk of his Adam's apple as he swallowed. His dick, soft, curved over his balls…his whole body felt warm and loose, like he'd just had a hot bath and a good toddy. He stood still and let his brother's eyes roam all over him and just breathed in, out. Right now, this wasn't about sex. Not just about sex. It was—Sam and Dean. This moment. Nothing wrong in it, nothing but them. 

Sam nodded. He slipped his suspenders loose to drop to his narrow waist, then unbuttoned his own shirt; let it slide to the floor. His fingers traced the buttons on his trousers, unbuttoned one after the other, slow, deliberate…not seductive; at least it didn’t seem that way to Dean. Sam seemed more…thoughtful. Weighing. There was a bit of the kid Sam had been in the way he looked, in his eyes, the way his lips pursed slightly, the little curl between his eyebrows…trousers open now, then one by one, the buttons on the union suit came free, the thin, summer-weight cotton parting around Sam's body.

"Sam."

Sam blinked, smiled at Dean and let trousers and underwear hit the floor together. "Dean." He seemed so satisfied, so pleased that Dean couldn't help but smile with him. Sam held one hand out and Dean went to him, wanting to be closer, not seeing anything but Sam's eyes, and the way they seemed to change colors, light brown shifting, going the color of stormy seas. He held both hands out and Dean finally noticed Sam was hard—his dick sinking and rising with each breath, so dark it almost looked painful. Dean dropped a hand to his own dick and hissed. The touch felt like an electric shock, and a bead of wet oozed from the tip. He hadn't known until then how hard he was himself. 

Sam whispered, so quietly it probably wasn't meant for Dean to hear. "You want me. You want this. Come here, let's take it then."

Dean floated forward, still in a place that was warm and not quite real, where this was expected and right and of course he wanted Sam with him, on him. _In him,_ and that small part of himself crowed, _yes._

[ ](http://pics.livejournal.com/roxymissrose/pic/000caq31/)

Yes….

Sam saw it in Dean's eyes, in the way he stood. It was _everything_ he wanted. Dean was his. Finally, completely, his. The bone-deep satisfaction slid sideways a bit. Despair stabbed sharply behind his breastbone, it welled up like blood. He couldn’t let Dean see it, wouldn't break this bubble of peace that somehow miraculously settled around them. Sam held his arms out and Dean walked into them. He closed his eyes so that his brother couldn't see his pain. 

He knew that Dean wasn't coming back without scars. Once he was past those iron gates of that heap of stone on the hill—Haddeston Correctional—he'd be nothing but new fish, ripe to be eaten alive—or _worse,_ if any of Big Moe's men got to him—and they both knew it. Dean wasn't going to be able to hold them all off, not alone. He'd need a sponsor, some mug who had a good reason to keep him alive. With lips like his, an ass like his…those eyes, so full of hurt, pain….

Dean didn't stand a chance against the sharks—they'd swarm him the minute he set foot in the slam.

There was only one thing Sam could do, and that was claim Dean first. Claim him over everyone else. He smoothed his palm down Dean's cheek, his neck…he pressed open-mouthed kisses where his hand had been and Dean just turned into it, turned soft and pliant like never before, going wherever Sam moved him. Sam hummed in appreciation. This was the way it should always have been.

He bent Dean backwards so that he presented everything to Sam, nipples, belly, cock…Sam bit down on what was offered---groaned at how Dean hissed when Sam's mouth closed over a flat, dark nipple, felt Dean's heart start to race, his chest raise and fall in sync with Sam's as he worried that sweet bit of flesh…he felt Dean's cock rub against his leg, shifted and pulled Dean to him so that they fit against one another, cocks lined up like jigsaw puzzle pieces, they fit so good. 

Sam reached between them, wanting to feel Dean grow harder, thicker, against him. Slick from Dean's cock dripped off Sam's knuckles, almost as thick and warm as blood. Sam groaned, scolding himself. Slow, sweet—this was where he had to make love to Dean, woo him off his feet. Sure, right now, he could probably snatch what he wanted from Dean. Bend him over and just fuck the lights right out of him and leave scars that would let everyone know how much his brother belonged to him. But he'd had a great teacher in Assasi. He'd learned how to pull the net in tight and make the catch love it.

What Dean needed was to be swept off his feet. Sam would make love to him, fill him full of it—brand him forever with the feel of it. So when those big house mooks tried to rip it out of him, Dean would remember _this._ Remember how it was with his brother, and know that he couldn’t have it this way again until he was with his brother again. 

"Sam…Sam, what…" Dean sighed, his eyes falling closed, hiding in his way, Sam knew—there was still that last, dying part of Dean that wanted to deny this, but still—he leaned into Sam's touch, spread his legs when Sam reached behind him and stroked down his cleft, groaned long, and loud, when silky-smooth skin opened up to Sam's fingers. It made him shiver; he took a deep breath to steady himself. Slow, slow….

On their bed, with a little jar of Vaseline by his knee, Sam worked his fingers into Dean, slowly coaxing him open, whispering in his ear. "You're so good, feel so good, taking care of me, love you"—his cock jerked and spat slick at how Dean rose to meet him, the way he moaned and thrust himself down on Sam's long fingers like a bitch in heat. 

Sam growled and worked his fingers deeper, taking it slow; being oh-so gentle…Vaseline and patience had Dean so open for him. 

"God, you're so good for me," Sam moaned, and pulled back, teasing Dean's rim, not quite breaching him. He waited, counting the seconds before Dean moaned, pawed at his hand, trying to shove Sam's fingers back in.

"C'mon, Sam, shit, don’t leave me like this." 

"God damn it—" Sam wrapped his fingers tight around the base of his cock, a jolt shooting hard through him, fighting off the urge to come all over Dean, to shove his cock in hard where his fingers had been. He bit his lip hard. He wasn't going to ruin it all now, not after he'd put work into making Dean pant for it. "Okay, okay, now, big brother, inside you now."

 

His eyes slammed tight at the way Dean cried out, like some slut begging for her sugar-daddy, stuffed full but wanting still more….

"Yeah. _Big brother._ Like me saying it…so you won’t forget?"

Dean choked out a ragged yes as Sam rocked the head of his cock into Dean—couldn't help hissing at the tight, hot grip. Dean liked it too, Sam could tell. His voice caught on a scream, long, low and harsh—Sam's own throat ached hearing it—and Dean's hips jerked upwards, trying his best to get Sam deeper inside. 

Inch by hot inch, Sam slid in. He watched Dean's face twist, felt him shuddering, until his balls were resting against the soft skin of Dean's ass. Seated deep, he felt Dean's heartbeat all along the length of his cock. He didn't think he could last much longer—he'd almost come the second he'd breached Dean. He pulled Dean's face to his, and peppered it with kisses. He mumbled all the words of love he could imagine, begged Dean to love him the way he loved Dean. He put his hand on his brother's cock, wet as he imagined a girl would be and all for him. He cursed out loud at the flutter of Dean's ass around him, the way his cock got even harder as he drew out long, tight strokes over it. 

Dean shoved his fist in his mouth, trying to muffle a raw, desperate scream. Sam shuddered and pressed his face into Dean's shoulder, he was going to come, he couldn’t stop it. He stripped Dean harder, faster, and felt him clamp down all around Sam—Dean came hard, shouting Sam's name. 

It was so goddamn good, it was— _beyond_ good. Everything in his life up to now was aimed at getting him here. Every piece of Dean belonged to him now, inside and out, every piece of Dean was his. Sam came on that thought, every muscle locked and centered on Dean. Every breath, the tears that came, it was _all_ for Dean, the only person in this life he'd ever cared about, ever would care about. 

Spunk oozed out around his still jerking cock, running out of Dean. Without a thought, he scooped it up along the edge of his finger and pushed it back inside, making the both of them gasp, groan. 

His cock slipped out, too soft now, so he shoved his thumb inside of Dean instead, working what come had leaked out back inside of him, massaging it into tender inner walls. Dean hissed and moaned, tried feebly to swat Sam away before giving up, dropping his hands to the bed. 

"Dean."

"Hunh—wha—what, Sammy. You 'kay?"

"Yeah, I am, better than okay, better than—anything. But, I need a promise from you, Dean."

Dean blinked blearily at Sam, wincing slightly whenever Sam's thumb brushed up against some overly-sensitive, tender place inside him. He lifted a shaky hand and cupped Sam's cheek. "Promise you wha', Baby?" 

Sam smiled—Dean was so far gone, he'd bet his brother hadn't even heard himself. "Promise me not to ever do this with anyone else. Promise on your—our mother."

_"Sam."_ Dean sounded scandalized, probably because Sam had the nerve to bring his sainted mother into their bed, the bed where he'd just had sex with his little brother. Sam dropped his head against Dean's shoulder, mouthing at his tender skin…mostly to hide the grin that wanted to break free.

Dean stiffened, winced when Sam pulled his thumb free finally and rubbed over his sensitive, puffed-up hole instead. Dean closed his eyes, his forehead grooved with worry lines. "I—I promise." Dean opened them again and skewered him with a look so deep, it almost made Sam feel guilty. 

"Sam, I'll never do this with anyone else. I swear on my own soul." 

Sam figured that would have to do. He smiled gently at Dean and kissed his mouth. 

When Dean came out of the slam again, it wouldn’t be like this. Every time someone fucked him, he'd think of his promise. He promised Sam and that would be enough to make every cock feel like a knife to his heart. 

Dean probably would never give it up so sweetly again, at least not until he relearned how to be Sam's. And he would. There was no question in Sam's mind that he would, because he owned Dean, all of him. Body and soul. He loved every part of Dean, and when he had him again, there'd be nothing they wouldn’t do for each other. Sam was certain of that, too, hands down.

* * * *

Sam thought he'd never sleep, his mind and heart too full with everything that had happened that night, but eventually, his eyes closed, and neither of them moved again until full sunlight streamed in through their bedroom window.

[ ](http://pics.livejournal.com/roxymissrose/pic/000caq31/)

Assasi sat up front with Louie, who'd refused to let anyone drive them to court but himself. Louie had taken the big navy and black Deusenburg, because he knew Dean loved it. Sam could see the man's eyes cut back and forth between Dean and the road. He felt a faint little flutter of warmth in his chest…he never faulted Louie for loving Dean like he was his own. He caught Louie's eyes in the rearview mirror and smiled. And Sam knew Louie actually loved him, too, had proved himself more than once to be what Sam had thought of him—worthy family. _Puddy…_ Louie was the only who could call him that, that name A's goons had saddled him with back when he when he'd been a pudgy little snot-nosed brat. And then there was A, calling him _Putto,_ little angel—the feeling those memories evoked he wouldn't exactly call fond. Wasn't something he heard from the man lately and Sam was a-okay with that.

Thinking of the old days had Sam fidgeting, something he tried to cover by pulling his tie straighter. Dean flicked a look his way—reached out for Sam's hand and squeezed, wrapping it tight in his. Sam settled, smiled for Dean, and did his best to think about nothing. 

Assasi turned his head towards the back seat and flashed Dean a wink. "Hey, ya holdin' up okay, eh, Dean-o?"

"I'm good, Mr. A, I'm good." 

Assasi nodded, patted the seatback and nodded, like he expected nothing less, like he couldn't hear Dean's voice shake. Sam fumed inside, but he knew they both owed Assasi a debt that was beyond repaying at this point. That his brother wasn't cooling his heels in stir was due to Assasi—he'd greased a few palms, yanked a chain or two, to make it that way, so that Dean could wait for judgment day at home, with Sam. 

Life had stupidly gone on as usual—nothing much changed. Evenings, they'd sat in the kitchen like always, Sam doing his homework while Dean cooked, after maybe played cards or listened to the radio—Dean's favorite, The Mystery House, or one of the music programs. They'd gone on as if there was nothing terrible hanging over their heads just waiting to crash down, like a guillotine blade. 

The only change was in their bedroom, where night after night Dean opened himself for Sam, body and soul, and in return, Sam gave every bit of himself he was capable of giving to Dean.

Now the wait was over. Whatever happened next, right now it was it should be, Sam and Dean like always, side by side, them against everything. They were solid front like always—hell, A had even dressed them alike—smart gray suits, black ties. Black shoes. Sam thought they looked like monks. He supposed they were to act like monks, too. He glanced at Dean. Hard sell there, with his kiss-swollen lips and bedroom eyes. Lashes so long they caught the light and sparkled like diamonds. Dean turned to Sam, the green light in his eyes banked. He was struggling to keep his face blank, but it was so plain to Sam, his brother's face was a mask of unhappiness.

Dean swallowed hard, managing to wrestle a grin up from somewhere, he murmured, "Don't look so down, Sammy. I ain't got the heebie-jeebies—you neither, okay? A's got the fix in, smooth as silk. I'll do whatever bid I get and it'll be gravy, y'hear?" He patted Sam's knee, gave it a little squeeze, and winced slightly as he moved on the seat. 

"Yeah, sure, of course, Dean," Sam's voice was as low as Dean's when he answered; keeping what was said between the two of them private. "I trust A and all, I'm just…you know. You know how I get sometimes. It's hard." 

"Yeah, I know. Just thinking of not being…here." Dean muttered and turned to look out the window as the city flashed by. "Not being with you," he whispered.

* * * *

Sam sat with Assasi directly behind the defending attorneys' table, and watched bitterly as the prosecutor presenting opening arguments. The jerk did his best to paint Dean as a depraved, heartless murderer of youth, a blood-thirsty gangster with callous disregard for life. His Dean—one of the most moral people he'd ever met. Sam almost laughed. The man must be a fool—anyone could see that argument was never going to fly. Not a-one of those jurors looking at his brother could possibly see the monster the prosecutor was trying to paint.

The prosecutor called witnesses, and for the most part they were a laugh—Moe's men, and Sam could see the jury wasn't sold, even without being stacked. The defense called Dean. Sam hadn't wanted that, but Assasi assured him it was the way to go. He'd better be right, Sam thought. 

Dean sat hunched over like he was trying to disappear into his new suit, his huge eyes shimmering with what looked like barely contained tears, his soft, red mouth turned down in despair…they all watched Dean's mouth when he spoke; they were all drawn to his eyes, deep, limpid pools, shining with fear, radiating hurt. 

Dean…was _beautiful._ His skin was translucent, lit with morning light that streamed in from the tall windows behind the judge's bench—it caressed the soft pale gray of his suit, crowned his freshly barbered hair, gleaming like a damn halo. It was so perfect, the way the sun loved Dean, like Assasi had _planned_ for the sunlight to break over the witness stand in such a way as to make Dean look….

Innocent. Suffering, and so beautifully, like Saint Sebastian; pinned by life's barbs and bleeding, but still standing.

Sam stared at Dean, drinking him in…and he noticed something odd. There was something about the whole picture that was just a bit…off. He narrowed his eyes at Dean on the stand…it took a few more seconds before he saw it. The beautiful suits A had made for them _—Dean's suit—_ was cut just a little bit bigger across the shoulders, just a little bit longer in the sleeves. Not to give an effect of sloppiness or poverty…the suit was just a _little_ bit big. What it did was make Dean look younger, like a boy wearing his father's suit, trying to appear older than his years. 

"Hunh." Sam had to admire that. It was—it was damn smart. Assasi noticed Sam little grunt of surprise, pinned Sam with a lizard blink—and smiled. He nodded, a fractional tilt of his head in Sam's direction, nothing more than that. He knew that Sam had seen, and understood. His expression one of approval at being caught out. Assasi turned away again, watching the drama unfold.

* * * *

The defense did what it was supposed to do; the prosecution did what it was supposed to, the jury did as well. And in the end, Dean got four years, manslaughter in the second degree. Assasi looked more than satisfied under his mask of sadness—it was better than they'd planned for, much better. Hell, who knew, maybe A had always known just how much time Dean would draw. Sam wouldn't put it past him, and he knew Assasi thought Dean would be harder and better for it, putting an edge on the _capo_ he was planning for Dean to be.

So, maybe for A and his crew it was good news, good work—hell, it was practically a miracle, Dean getting only four years for burning a guy. Sam though, Sam felt the bottom drop out of his world. 

He'd known it was coming. He'd known, but hearing the sentence still felt like he'd had a fillet knife run between his ribs. He hated the jurors, the lawyers, the judge, and most of all the cops who were marching Dean away.

All he could see was Dean's white, dead face, the way he struggled to mask his fear, the way he bit at his lips 'til they bled to lock his voice in. 

Sam thought he'd been prepared for it. He'd got out of bed that morning, knowing he was ready for this, hardened and honed to an edge, mind and body filled up with Dean like—like a battery. 

This was a terrible way to find out he wasn't ready, not at all. For the first time ever in his life, Sam knew what it felt like to be truly afraid.

[ ](http://pics.livejournal.com/roxymissrose/pic/000caq31/)


	8. Chapter 8

[ ](http://pics.livejournal.com/roxymissrose/pic/000caq31/)

Dean stood ramrod straight, every muscle tight as a bowstring. He clutched the bundle each con had been handed on intake tight in his hands, and hoped like hell no one could see him shaking like a wetbrain with the DTs. He focused on the little folded pile of prison-issue clothing in his hands. He was naked, like all the other mooks in line, all of them shaking in the cold, standing with their asses pressed against the shower tiles. The fuckin' pea-soup colored tiles were like ice—so grimy with old soap and dirt his skin crawled, trying to pull away from it. His hair was flat, dripping wet from the shower they'd been marched through. His jaw hurt from clenching it tight and his ass burned. The big ugly screw standing in front of him grinned, like having shoved his fingers in Dean's ass, "searching for contraband, spread 'em, sweet-cheeks" was a school yard prank.

"This is how it's going to go," the head screw barked. "We say jump, you don’t even ask how high, you fuckin' start jumping and hope like hell it's good enough, got me? Now after you losers get your racks tied down, you'll get your work station—and remember, gettin' work is a privilege, not a right. Anything you _get_ is a privilege, now." 

The captain eyeballed them as he marched down to the end of the line, wheeled around and headed back, the light reflecting from his brass badge, his buttons. The cap pulled down low on his forehead cast most of his face into shadow, made him look like some pulp magazine villain. He looked Dean's way and Dean dropped his eyes, quick. He just wanted to do his bid and get out. He just wanted to make it out alive.

"It's up to me how this is gonna go for you. I'd suggest you do everything you can to keep on my good side." He turned to his lieutenant and snapped his fingers. "Get 'em boxed up, then come see me."

The screws hustled them along, _"get dressed—c'mon, hurry it up—button up, shoes on, ya low-lifes—"_ and then they were trotting down a long hallway, the concrete block walls painted a pale green, black floor tiles reflecting the lights like deep lake water. Everything looked whistle-clean; the air, though, it stank of bleach and too many bodies in one place. A sharp chill zipped up Dean's back and lodged in his chest. The last time he'd seen this place was the day Assasi brought him and Sammy in to see John Winchester…a couple of days before the old man'd bled out on a shower floor. 

The cold corridor was lined with cages—paint peeling off the once-white bars, that for a moment stretched as far as the eye could see, cage after cage after cage….Dean squinted down the row and saw on second sight there were just maybe, thirty, forty cells on each side of the corridor, on this floor and one level up. 

Cons were leaning against the upper railing, jeering as they watched the fish swim by. Dean made the mistake of glancing up at that second tier, and one thick-muscled mook locked eyes with him. His shirt sleeves were rolled up on his arms, revealing snakes and anchors and naked sheilas inked into their broad surfaces. The guy gave him a slow, nasty wink, and licked his lips like he'd just tasted something delicious. Dean's heart plummeted into his gut. This keeping-his-head-down stuff was probably going to be a hell of a lot harder than he'd planned for. 

Dean took a deep breath, squeezed his eyes shut. His hands tightened on the pathetic bundle of what was all he owned now. He was so damn full up with anger, so damn hot he was about to go off like a grenade and all it'd take was a nudge to knock his pin loose…he wasn't ready for this. He didn't' know what direction he'd blow. For all intents and purposes, he was alone now—unprotected, weak, and underneath that rage, he was more afraid than he'd ever been in his life. There'd not been one sign that Assasi was with him here. He'd have to assume that yeah, he'd been hung out to dry like wash on the line. Dean gathered it all—betrayal, rage, hatred—he opened his eyes and put all he had into glaring at the fat slob hanging over the rail. 

"Well, whataya know," Dean muttered to himself. It worked; the guy blinked and backed up a bit, the greasy leer sliding off his face. Yeah. Maybe all he had going for him now was his instincts, but they'd have to work for him—and he couldn't help the slim hope that Assasi had men in here willing to go to bat for him—because fucking hell, there were plenty of Big Moe's men in stir, willing to take a bat to him, like that fat fuck on the railing.

Dean glanced up again. Fat Guy was still up there, but now surrounded by his cronies, Fat Guy made eye contact again…and this time, slid his hand between his legs. He squeezed his dick, rotated his hips and shot Dean another of those nasty, greasy winks. All his little buddies laughed, all of them eyeing Dean like he was the last pork chop on the plate. _Fuck. Fuck. Fuck…_ Last time he'd been on the receiving end of a look like that, he'd been working for Bogg's. One asshole he could manage, but a mob?

Dean rolled his shoulders and blocked out the mokes. He'd seen the fear in Fat Guys look; Dean had never been an easy mark. If they ran at him, he'd take them out, as many assholes as he could; hell, Dean had always figured he'd go down fighting. He felt the guys around him ease away from him like he had some kinda disease they were afraid to catch, and he laughed, silent, like a secret to himself.

When the screw held the door to his cell open for him and the other joe assigned to it, that fucker had the brass ones to look like he was some kind of sorry for them. That made the rage that kept Dean moving burn even hotter—he didn't need some damn screw feelin' pity for _him—_ but he banked the fire and grabbed one of the beds lined shoved against the walls of the tiny cell. 

The cell door slammed shut, and the screw advised them both to keep their noses clean. Sure, sure, Dean thought—thanks a mill for the free advice, and worth every penny they paid for it.

All up and down the row, lights in the cells went out, leaving the long bank of florescent tubes in the corridor ceilings glaring down on them. Dean rolled himself in his thin, woolen blanket. He jammed his shoulders against the cold, block wall, and squeezed his eyes shut. He swallowed hard—rather kill himself than let go of the sob that clogged his throat. He could hear the guy in the other bed, gasping quietly into his pillow, apparently not afraid to cry—or too weak to keep it in.

Right now, his Sammy was getting ready for bed. He wasn't that far away, only a few miles past the city, but it might as well have been a world. _Fuck that,_ Dean thought. He wasn't gonna worry about distances and what was impossible now. Now, he was gonna think about his little brother, how right now, Sam was washing his face, getting the sink and the floor all wet—wetting his hair, pulling it back from his face, grinning at Dean all wide and sweet as he did. He imagined how Sam would look at him right before bed, the way his edges got kinda soft in the dim bedroom light. How long his legs were, how big his hands were…Dean closed his eyes and saw Sam pulling his pajama shirt on across shoulders getting bigger, more muscular. How he'd reach out to Dean in the night, pull him close....a tear escaped, wet his cheek; he scrubbed it dry. How was he going to keep on living without Sam, when he could barely _breathe_ without him?

[ ](http://pics.livejournal.com/roxymissrose/pic/000caq31/)

_3 months_

 

"Winchester! Get a move on, yer slower'n molasses."

He could barely hear him over the clang and slam of the wash machines working, but he knew O'Bannon, the man was hardly a puzzle. Besides anything the man said only required a 'yes sir', so—"Yes, Boss, moving faster." 

Dean hauled a ton of wet towels from the wash tub, feeding them through the wringer. His fingers were raw from the hot water and the rough fabric, but it was still a better, _safer_ job than cleaning, or cooking—no corners to work himself into, no weapons ready-to-hand…Dean grinned a little to himself. Yeah, safe, but come summer, it was gonna be a dog's life in that place. 

But the laundry's boss took a liking to him, and that helped too. He didn’t have to work cheek to jowl with some Kennedy rat, or some dick that decided that just because Dean wasn't some ugly palooka, he should take it up the ass. In fact, no one had come after him like that. Instead of making him feel safe, that worried him since they'd been pretty sure, him and Sam, that they'd come at him that way first. So if they weren't coming after him, it might mean that there was something worse in store…Moe Kennedy could be an inventive fucker, and Dean was in the perfect position to make an example of what happened to the slob dumb enough to cross Kennedy. 

Anyway, it was Sam who'd sweated blood over the possibility of rape; when it came right down to it, Dean wasn't too worried about the prospect. That kind of thinking was something he'd kept that to himself, but. Dean was no fool. If it came to _that,_ or a losin' some fingers or an eye—or worse—he was gonna suck dick any day. It hadn’t killed him when he was a kid and it wouldn’t kill him now. 

Dean rubbed his face, and snorted slightly, trying to get a reprieve from the ever-present, wet-paper/peppery smell of the laundry soap. He blinked—the moist, hot air felt a little heavy sometimes and it felt like he got lost in it, lost in thoughts that weren't worth much having. 

He got back to work, snagging a full laundry cart to shove over to the drying lines. Just as he reached the lines, a guy stepped out, a fireplug of a guy with a sneer plastered across his mug. He whispered, a rasp that Dean could barely catch over the clash of the machines. 

"Long timers got good memories in here, boy, nutin but time ta think…" the guy leaned closer, his hot breath glancing off Dean's jaw. "Been thinkin' about John Winchester." He drew a huge thumb across his neck, the ropy scar there explaining the hoarse shadow of a voice. "An' how faithless, chislin' bastards come to an end."

Dean turned his head from Fireplug's rank breath, snarled out, "Go ahead, ya punk. Fuck with Assasi's man. Because make no mistake, I'm in here for Assasi." He faced the guy head on and held up his rock-steady right hand. "I'll be happy to paint this hand with blood for him. Again." 

"Hey—s'at you, Winchester? What t'hell's goin' on there?"

At O'Bannon's shout, the mug growled and melted back in the shadows like a ghost. 

Dean startled at a fleeting touch on his shoulder, stilled when he realized it was the laundry's boss. 

"That jerk screwin' with you, Winchester?"

"Nah, Boss," he said, "guy was just flappin' his gums, nothing big."

"Well, all right, then. You go on an' head out to the yard with the others. Look like you could use a little sun," he said, and added gruffly, "yer startin' ta look like yer own corpse."

"Yes, Boss," Dean grinned at him, chuckled a little when O'Bannon rolled his eyes. He quickly snagged his jacket and headed to the yard with the other inmates.

* * * *

A brisk breeze cut across the yard, whisking the dust into small, dry billows, settling bits of paper and dead leaves against the chain link surrounding it. Beyond the fence, the wind shivered through brown grass, set the bare branches of the few trees outside the fence to clacking. There wasn't much to see past the fence, and there was nothing of interest to Dean inside it. A few cons stood about in small groups, or sat at the couple of bleachers set against one concrete block wall, a few sat at the small tables set in the guard tower sightlines.

There was a radio set up right outside a guard shack, close to a table where a few lifers sat playing cards. A friendly game—the guys shouting and jabbing each other had to be in their sixties or older—cons who were going to die there. Next table over, a few guys and some of their girls were coolin' their heels. A few girls stood, hips swaying to the music. Dean watched them for a bit, carefully—he didn’t want anyone to come to the mistaken conclusion he was trying to move on their doll. 

Dean walked a few feet past them, came to a rest with his back against a wall. He pulled a book out of his pocket and began to read, a new western he'd gotten in yesterday's mail. Sam had sent it, along with a letter and a picture—both untouched, a privilege and a sign that he was still Assasi's man.

He tucked his finger into the book to mark his place, and let his mind run on with thought of Sammy, worrying about him, missing him. He could barely make out a song he kind of liked, I'll See You in My Dreams, coming from the old geezers' radio. He found himself swaying a bit to the tune, feeling almost at ease…he sapped back to himself, alert to a sudden low buzz working itself through the yard.

A guy was coming through the gate with some of the newer intakes, drawing all sorts of attention. He stood out like a sore thumb—big, taller than anyone in the yard. Dean watched him lope across the concrete apron leading to the yard, and a thought speared him, sharp and crystal clear— _Sam's gonna look like that one day._

Dean blinked, startled at how clear the image of a grown-up Sam was, before shaking his head. Not gonna happen. Sam was plenty tall, sure—he was almost eye to eye with Dean, which made him already taller than most, but _this_ mook….nah, Sammy was never gonna be a mountain like that. 

Dean watched the guy cross the yard until he lost him in the shadows under the towers. 

WC: 8168

[ ](http://pics.livejournal.com/roxymissrose/pic/000caq31/)

_Dear Mr. A,_

_I am writing this to you while sitting here in the yard because it is a nice day, sunny and all, and it's starting to warm up pretty good too. Please thank Louie for remembering me and sending the cigarettes. It has helped quite a bit. Thank you for letting him do that and thank you for getting those letters from Sam and the packages to come through._

_I wonder when Sam can come and visit me. I ask because it has been three months and I miss him and you too. Please can't you see if it's possible? I know Sam is busy what with going to College and all but I sure would enjoy it and be grateful._

_Sempre Fedele_

_Dean Winchester_

 

Dean wrote letter after letter, practically begging Assasi to let Sam come visit, but there was always a reason why Sam couldn't, he couldn't, he couldn't, until six months had passed. It was the height of summer before Dean got word that Sam was finally allowed to come. Mr. Assasi never did show, and Dean had truly settled into the idea that he'd lost some—or most—favor with A, even though he still got letters and the occasional package from Sam. 

Dean had gradually come to expect nothing concrete in the way of support—still, he figured he must have _some_ sort of support. He'd been in stir for six months now—half a year gone by—and none of the rats had actually laid hands on him. Catcalls, jeers, revolting descriptions of just what his ass was good for, whispered hot and wet in his ear while he tried to choke down his dinner…he'd weathered all that, but as yet, not a single mug had laid a grimy finger on him. _Yet._

So maybe…maybe Assasi had a plan he just wasn't sharing with Dean or Sam. 

When he got the word that Sam was _finally_ coming, along with a date and time, he was beyond relieved. He was about to see his little brother at last, and finally got some sort of sign that Assasi considered Dean still had some worth.

[ ](http://pics.livejournal.com/roxymissrose/pic/000caq31/)

Dean tried not to sneeze into his dinner; dragged the sleeve of his shirt roughly under his nose. Not a cold, he was sure of that, it was just something about the laundry always sent his nose to running—maybe the soap, maybe the bleach. Nothing he could do about it. He'd spent the morning flat on his back, his head in the guts of one of the machines; he'd gotten soaking wet from head to toe. His hair was still wet, plastered against his head and making him look like mutt stuck in the rain. Somehow O'Bannon got it in his head that whenever one of the machines decided to act up, Dean, with his affinity for cars, was the first choice to wrangle the damn things back into shape.

As luck would have it, he had managed to force the damn mangle to its knees—so to speak—and now he was reaping the benefits of being useful; he'd snatched up his tray and found he'd been handed a little extra for dinner. 

He took his tray to the far corner of the mess hall, sat at a table with some of the old timers. It was a pretty good spot—the closest he could get to a corner with no door at his back, plus he was surrounded by a bunch of guys who didn't want shit from him. He bent over his tray and wasted no time at shoveling food in as fast as he could. Most of it tasted like shit, but he needed the extra. He was getting a little underweight, a condition he was trying compensate for with more training, and any extra food he could get. 

He'd been working out with some old cons who way-back-when had been in the ring. It wasn't a bad way to pass the time; he liked working with the body bag, liked slamming his frustrations away. Couple of them told Dean he had a real talent for it…sometimes, while he pounded the bag, he imagined a life away from their world, pictured what it would it would be like, with him and Sam making a legit living… _'right, there's a fairy tale for ya.'_

Dean worked his way through salty green beans, globs of gluey mashed potatoes, and a slab of dense grey stuff the cooks called meatloaf. Was probably horse. 

There was a bit of a scuffle and before Dean could react, some clown elbowed the old guy next to Dean out of the way, jumped in his spot and grabbed Dean's dick. He squeezed—hard—and was gone before Dean could stab him with his fork. 

"What the fuck—" 

That stupid fuck—Fat Mike—who'd been sneering at him since he'd landed in the joint was sat a few tables over, and he and his whole ugly-ass crew were laughing. Fat Mike's piggy little peepers gleamed like oil. 

Dean growled, but dropped his eyes. Not because he was afraid or nervous, but because the rage that roared through him was something he wanted to keep to himself—at least for the moment. If Dean took his tray to that fuck's head and stove in his melon the way he wished he could, he'd end up sweating out in the box for a couple of days, and he wasn't about to screw things up. Not today. Not with Sam finally coming to visit. 

His cellie stopped shoveling grub into his too-big mouth long enough to pin him with a weird look. "What the fuck, Winchester, whatya grinnin' for? Fat Mike's gonna kill ya—an' that's after he's done fucking you up..."

Fat Mike's beady eyes disappeared in his doughy face as he grinned in Dean's direction and made a kissy-faces at him. It was enough to make the hair on the back of Dean's neck rise and his stomach gave a queasy roll. 

"Yeah well, it ain't happenin' tonight," Dean said, and slid off the bench. He headed back to his cell. He spread out on his bed, ankles crossed, arms crossed over his chest. He closed his eyes and waited. 

A sharp bang brought him upright, heart banging and his eyes flying open—he'd actually managed to drop off.

"Let's go, boy," a guard snapped. "You got yerself a visitor."

Dean jumped up quickly, keeping pace with the guard who took him to little room they were allowed visitors in. Dean stepped through the doorway and came to a stop, looked around. Through the partition, Dean saw him—eyes first, beautiful eyes the color of stormy seas, then dimples breaking through with the widest, brightest smile anyone could ever hope to see. 

"Dean!" he saw Sam's mouth curl around his name, and damn if it didn't make him tear up. Fuck, there he was, his Sammy, right there at the table, right in the goddamn flesh. 

"C'mon, yer blockin' the doorway," the guard growled, and yanked the cuffs on his wrists, leading Dean to the table that split the room in half, a long table topped with a wire wall separating con from civilian. With a hard shove on one shoulder, the screw seated Dean in front of the reinforced wire opening. The openings in the wire were small, but big enough for Sam to poke the tips of his fingers through, and best of all, Dean could hear him, and smell him. He pushed his own fingertips into the wire and Sam's fingers rubbed softly against his. "Dean," he said again. Sam's face glowed like the sun. He didn’t need to say anything, because it was all there on his face, everything he felt. 

"Sam." Dean closed his eyes for a moment, trying to hide what it meant to him to see his brother again. "God, I missed you. So much." 

Sam nodded. "Yeah…I'm so sorry Dean. But law school…gosh, it's pretty darn hard. I never had to work for grades before." He gifted Dean with a shy smile. "Not like I'm working that hard now. And when I didn’t have school, well…" he stopped, dropped his eyes and blushed. Dean felt like he was going to pass out—his heart just squeezed down into a bloodless rock in his chest. He knew what Sam was going to say, and it was killing him already. Sam found someone, some girl, or…or…someone who was free and there for Sam and sweet for him….

"A's been letting me—" Sam glanced around quickly and leaned closer—"A's been letting me do a few small…deliveries for him, taking me on little trips for him. I've been to the mountains, in the south. It's beautiful in the mountains, very relaxing."

Dean frowned. He was no damn fool; he knew the mountains meant moonshine. What was Assasi getting Sam into?

"You're supposed to be studying, Sam, working towards being something respectable, man. What the hell's going on?" He leaned as close as he could to the wire, speaking low, but it was easy to pick up the desperate tone in his voice and the guard shifted closer, frowning. Sam leaned forward too; his voice smooth, calming, and Dean settled—a little bit. 

"Dean…I am studying, I'm studying all the time. You know this law stuff is for Mr. A, right? I mean, I'm his man, just like you are. Just different. Law will take us in a lot of places. Lawyering means no more of this for you, you got me? And I'm safe, Dean, Mr. A makes sure that I'm safe as houses and nothing will touch me, okay? All I'm worried about is you. Thank god, you've got A's protection here, right? You're good, right?"

Sam rubbed his fingertips slowly over Dean's, Sam's beautiful fingers…Den shivered just a bit, remembering the way Sam had slipped them inside of him their last night. Looking into Sam's eyes, Dean could see that Sam was thinking of that night as well, and he worried for a moment that maybe the guards and all would see this wasn’t something brothers did, this touching.

"I dream about you every night," Sam whispered, and Dean flushed a deep, burning red, he felt the flare of heat rush across his cheeks, down his chest…

"Yeah, me too," he said, but before he could say more, the guard was at his side, pulling him to his feet. "Let's go, Winchester, visiting hours are done for ya."

He twisted his head as he left the room, desperate for one more look at his brother, his sole reason for living….

[ ](http://pics.livejournal.com/roxymissrose/pic/000caq31/)

The showers were humid, the air stifling and humid from constantly dripping water. That and the _smell,_ mildewed linen and wet linoleum—Dean hated the smell and the way it took him back to the Winchester apartment in summer time: hot, airless, dark all the time, what few windows they had opening out into the airshaft between the buildings. How much he'd hated their always-damp sheets and the stink, from the first heat wave to the first frost.

He shook his head, back in the present and scrubbing at his nose. The stink of mildew and wet concrete seemed more intense. He walked into the alcove that led into the shower room, and stopped. It was too quiet. His grip tightened on his towel. Glanced over at guard who'd brought him there. The screw caught the hesitancy in Dean's step, and grinned. Winked at Dean and that was the tip-off—here was the other shoe, dropping like a bomb. 

A rushing hiss split the quiet as the bank of shower heads flicked on. Dean swiveled his head, trying to catch who was in the room with him, but the flimsy partitions hid no one, and the shower heads kept spewing water. 

He backed towards the door, hoping against hope that the screw would let him out. Fat chance of that, but he had to give it a try—

The fucker hauled off and kicked him, back of the knee—his leg crumbled under him. As it gave, the screw shoved him forward and Dean skidded face-first into the first stall. A blow to his head rang his bell like nobody's business—the lights sparked and dimmed. He blinked—wasn't the lights dimming, just his eyes screwing up from the blow. 

Dean sprawled out on the cold, rough tiles, muscles jerking uselessly—down for the count. Someone was yapping, but he couldn’t make out what they were saying—everything sounded like he was underwater. He made a weak and wobbly effort to get to his feet, but a booted foot slammed into his side. 

Dean spit blood, dazed, breathless…about to get his ticket punched in this stinking, filthy shower…he almost wanted to laugh. Seemed he was gonna follow in John Winchester's footsteps, no matter how much he'd wanted to be nothing like his dad. 

A rough hand under his chin yanked his head up, ripped a gasp of pain out of him. 

"Hello, little fish. Guess what? You're 'bout ta go swimmin' wit sharks."

More hands laid on him, lifted him, dragged him to the farthest corner of the shower room. He was dropped face down, and someone's size 12 brogun was planted between his shoulder blades. "Moe sends his regards, sweetmeat." 

Dean knew that voice, sure. Heard it plenty of times in the mess hall. So, finally Fat Mike was out to put the claim on. Dean was scared, he was scared as shit through and through, but still he held his head up best he could, and cursed the bastards who were going to kill him. He owed it to Sam to go out like a man.

"I ain't got a debt with Kennedy," Dean snarled. "Any beef Winchesters had with him, got paid in my dad's blood. Moe ain't got any hate for me or my brother—and that gunsel of his was—was—that's just what happens in the game, so fuck you—"

A crack deafened him, his cheek exploded with pain and his lip split. He gagged on blood pouring into his mouth too quickly to spit out. 

Another voice, a different voice than Fat Mike's broke through the fog. This voice was calm, disinterested—all business. "Yeah, that's the game, but you know part of that game means showing Assasi he can't trample all over Moe's territory. Moe ain't got beef with you, but he does with that guinea Assasi. And here he's got A's 'son', sitting right in the palm of his hand." A foot collided with Dean's ribs, searing pain making the lights dim again. When he caught his breath, the voice went on. 

"So, we do what we gotta do. No hard feelings—at least for my boss. Can't speak for these uncivilized mooks." The voice was quieter as it moved away. "Believe it or not, I'm sorry it's gotta go down like this, Winchester, but that's the breaks. We'll light a candle for you…."

Dean heard the shower room door click shut. His legs were gripped suddenly, pulled apart by two different sets of hands. The foot that had been on his back moved to his neck. He bit back a scream as his arms were gripped too, pulled backwards until they strained at the sockets. He wanted to cry—felt like his damn arms and legs were being ripped right off.

A sharp crack echoed in Dean's ear—a second later, pain so intense it stole his breath, rushed through one arm. His mouth dropped open, ready to push out a scream, but it was instantly blocked. He retched, jerked harder, trying to push out the dick shoving deep into his mouth, stopping his throat like a cork in a bottle, but a rough hand locked in his hair to hold his head still. He struggled for breath. Spit bubbled and dripped out around Dean's lips as Fat Mike—had to be him—thrust in and out of his mouth. 

Dean fought to breathe, to rein in the fear making his guts into water. He could do this, he could. Maybe come out of this alive—fuckin' live for another day and wait for the chance to cut this pig's dick off and choke _him_ on it. 

Dean told himself over and over—this was nothing, _nothing._ He could do this, he could do—

He was yanked up off the floor, tossed over something hard and cold that he got was a detergent drum, then skewered ass-first by a fucking lightening bolt. Someone's dick stopped up his throat again, cutting off his scream. The pain kept growing; it sawed at him, tearing him in two until something cold and oily ran down his back, dripping into the crack of his ass…the pain lessened. 

"That's better," Dean heard, and he lost it—he spit vomit out around the dick, earned a vicious punch to the head that blinded him and knocked him off the drum—but thank god, he could breathe again. At least for the blessed moment before his face was ground roughly into the concrete, into the puddle of vomit. 

He was flipped and dragged a few feet, then something warm and thick spattered against his face. It ran into his mouth and burned his eyes. Blood was his first thought, before he realized it was spunk.

 _I'm gonna kill all of them,_ he swore this to himself as he tried to absorb the blows raining down on him. _Kill all of them…_

The thought followed him down into the dark.

* * * *

Dark all over and it felt heavy, pressing him flat…Dean came to fighting, trying to, but no part of him responded to his frantic desire to _move._ He heard Sam…he was talking to someone. Dean needed Sam to know that he was awake, tried to move his hands at least, but no dice. Everything was too fucking heavy. "Hey…" he croaked. "Sam, hey—"

Dean's voice failed him—his throat was a tube full of lava; the surprised breath he tried to drag in made his chest explode with pain, and he coughed and moaned because he couldn't scream. 

A pink blob danced into his blurry line-of-sight, he tried to raise his hands again and stuttered with the pain of it.

"You're safe—you're going to be fine, Winchester." 

Shit. Not Sam, just the croaker, old Doc Johnson. Dean snorted, disagreeing with the gruff, impersonal voice. He sure as hell was _not_ safe, not as long as his ass was in the big house. And he sure as hell wasn't anything close to fine. His throat was on fire and his ass…just thinking about his ass made his muscles clench, and the startled grunt it ripped out of him just poured kerosene on the fire in his throat. His eyes rolled from the pain—his heart pounded against his breastbone. He couldn't breath, his heart was galloping, he was going to die on this narrow, rock-hard bed, stinking of bleach and…and…he was going to die where no one cared about him, he was going to die alone….

A burning sensation bloomed in his arm; he faded into black again—just before he dropped off he thought he heard, "Rest easy now, I'm going to help you." 

He woke alone. 

Dean spent a couple of weeks in the infirmary, fighting off fevers brought on by infection, healing from deep bruises swirling purple and green all over his body. He'd come out of the showers with a cracked arm bone, his face and mouth swollen and torn. Dean lay along on that bed and thought about writing Sammy—confessing what had happened to him. But in the end, he swallowed his shame and decided not to. 

Why make Sam suffer for something he couldn’t fix? Or worse, make him look at Dean with disgust, for being so fuckin' weak as to let some low-life thugs split him like a two-dollar whore, break the promise he'd made him—

_"Sam, I'll never do this with anyone else. I swear on my own soul."_

Sam would hate him for not fighting hard enough, for letting some low-level, crummy dips and hopheads break him like cheap china.

Eventually the fevers died, his ass healed, and the swelling eased. He could eat again, walk again. They let him out of the infirmary, and life went on.

[ ](http://pics.livejournal.com/roxymissrose/pic/000caq31/)

Two months later, Dean had his first day back in the laundry. He stepped through the double doors and froze—felt like an ice-cold wind rippled up his spine, curled icy claws into his gut. Dean swallowed hard, shook his shoulders as subtly as he could and took another step. He had to keep walking, had to hold his chin up, not let the scumbags win an inch. Dean swaggered into the centre of the room, smirking at any mug who looked his way.

He was leaning over one of the soaking tubs when he felt something at his back—someone slapped a mitt on his shoulder, but before he could wheel around and clock them with the brush he'd scooped out of the water, he heard O'Bannon's voice and stood down. Hell, just about fainted with relief, to tell the truth.

"Glad to see you're back, Winchester. Machines ain't been the same without yer magic touch." His words were gruff, the tone as well, but Dean saw the way his eyes flicked over him, checking him out—how they darkened with concern, maybe even a little anger. O'Bannon even went so far as to pat his shoulder—once. "A'right, vacation's over. Get yer loafin' ass back to work," he growled. 

Dean breathed out a relieved sigh—if O'Bannon was gonna act like nothing happened, then so, by god, could he. Dean managed a grin for him. "Going, Boss."

He headed over to the machines, intending to give them a quick once over. Some movement flickered in the corner of his eye, made him jump. There, steadily feeding sheets and towels into the mangles, was that giant stranger—the guy he'd seen in the yard. 

Dean couldn’t be sure, but it looked like maybe the con was sizing him up. Dean cursed to himself—if this one wanted a piece of him, Dean doubted he'd have a fucking chance in hell of fighting that giant off, not alone. And not only was the mook a giant, he was a goddamn button man, a contract killer. At least, that was the skinny making the rounds. Word was the guy loved his job, and that kind of a guy…Dean shuddered. 

Dean felt those cold, china-doll eyes on him the whole time he loaded machines.

* * * *

Dean tried to go on like business as usual, but he was clearly marked.

Moe's men were circling, smiling like sharks tasting blood in the water—A's men were nowhere to be seen. Dean took deep breaths and kept his head down, much as he could. He avoided the yard—when he had to go out, he kept close to the towers and kept his back to a wall. When he ate, he ate with the old guard, the old cons who'd taken a liking to him. He worked in the laundry, one eye on the machines; the other on the doors…his whole body was one thrumming nerve, ever on point, never relaxing. He kept hos chin up, a strut in his step, despite knowing he'd been given up, that Assasi had cut him loose. Well, fuck, he'd always known, deep down, that Sammy was the only real family he had. Sam would never give up on him. Sam would never hurt him, and he was going to hang on to that one good thing in his life to the bitter end. 

Weeks went by before Dean ultimately dropped the ball—it was no fault of his own, eventually there just came a point that, try as he might, his body gave out. A lack of sleep, not enough food, never a moment to take an easy breath…exhaustion, hunger; Dean had known it was never a question of _if_ he let his guard down, it had always been _when._

_When_ came one afternoon in the laundry. In the brief moments that took him out of the main part of the room into one dark corner, he stumbled. 

It started with Dean pushing one of the tubs of dirty laundry towards a bank of washing machines… a guard sauntering in and ordering O'Bannon out…silent orders in an ice-cold glare and men scurrying to the doors…. 

In the minute it took for O'Bannon to walk out with the guard, Dean was surrounded by Kennedy's goons. Cons not in on the game blew out the doors like smoke, their tubs abandoned, wet clothes hung up in the mangles, dry clothes heaped up on the folding tables…he was alone, swinging in the wind like a busted kite.

Dean put his back to the corner in a futile bid to defend himself.

They came at him. 

Quick as roaches, four of Fat Mike's boys dragged him into the dark space between the boilers. Their faces were pale and twisted, their eyes in shadow. Their fingers, their teeth, clawed and bit at him like rabid dogs, like rats. They shoved a rag between his teeth, they held him down, and went to work. 

He was pulled between them like a wishbone. He screamed when he was pressed up against the hot surface of the boilers, when they pulled at his pants he fought with every bit of himself, because he'd go to hell before being raped again. They'd be stickin' their dicks into a dead man, god as his witness. 

Dean closed his eyes and drew on everything he had had left—he was going to go out like a man, like a goddamn son of Mary Winchester—

Something hot and wet splashed his face—he flinched in disgust, figuring one of the mugs had come on him. He shook his head and roared into the gag—his eyes stung, took a few seconds for him to get that it wasn't spunk. Blood spattered the floor and a high-pitched shriek rung in his ears. 

A juggernaut bore down on them; Dean saw whirling arms, flashing blades, and blood, so much blood….

Over the screams of the mooks who thought they'd break him, Dean heard what sounded like some strange language, whoever it was, was shouting something, scattering the rats back into the dark. 

Dean rolled his head, his cheek to the tiled floor, blood thickening up under his stinging flesh. Big, black boots came to a stop inches from his face. Dean knew, they belonged to the giant. He grabbed Dean's arm and dragged him to his knees, ripping out the gag and ignoring the bark of pain Dean let loose. "That guard, the one named Swanson, he's at the end of the hall, he's the only one you can trust, just so you know." 

Dean had a scattered moment in which he thought the giant's voice was kind of nice, nothing like he'd expected, and then the man dropped his arm and turned away. Dean was alone, bleeding onto the black tiles of the laundry floor. 

O'Bannon came sprinting back into the room before Dean finished dragging himself to his feet. "Fuckin'—Jesus Mary and Joseph, what the ever lovin' hell happened in here, Winchester?" he shouted. 

Dean tried to keep the man in sight, though he was weaving about like a stewbum. "Don’ r'member, Boss. Think…think I fell. Hit m'head pretty…hard." He kept his eyes on the floor, struggling to keep to his feet.

"Shit. Yeah…sure. You _fell."_ O'Bannon snarled. He shook his head and turned away from Dean. They both knew Dean was never going to say a word. It was the law of the jungle, the law Dean had been raised in and he wasn't capable of thinking any other way. 

The guard, Swanson, was at the door. "That big sombitch Salvatore sent me. What the heck happened here, Mike? I mean, Mr. O'Bannon." 

O'Bannon threw his hands up in the air "Take this idiot in to see the doc."

"Yeah, sure." This particular guard had picked up on O'Bannon's like for Dean, and treated Dean decently. He took him straight away to the infirmary to get Dean get treated—was on board when the doc insisted he spend the night. Dean imagined, laying there on the thin, hard infirmary bed, that he should be plotting and planning his revenge, but the promise of a full night's sleep, of safety, broke him thoroughly. He eased back, shut his eyes and vaguely thanked something for getting him through it.

[ ](http://pics.livejournal.com/roxymissrose/pic/000caq31/)

Dean was sprawled out on his bed, feet up on the end rail, one arm propped behind his head. Relaxing. Reading a letter from Sam. He was just rereading the part where Sam described Louie breaking in a few new mugs, smiling to himself, when a guy he knew was Assasi's stopped in front of his cell, rapped his knuckles against the bars.

"What's th'word, Winchester. Say, heard yer cellie's caught hisself a fatal kinda problem…someone took issues wit the way he expressed himself about ya—maybe had a bit too much to say abut yer comin's and goin's if ya get my drift."

Dean snapped upright, crammed his letter under his pillow in one smooth move and fixed a glare at the mug outside his cell. "Yeah? S'at so?"

"Yeah, that _gidrul_ yakked his last. A rat is a rat is a rat, get me?" The guy hitched his pants higher and smirked at Dean. "Look like you got a private room fer now."

Dean fought down a queasy roll of unease, nodded. "Okay. Tell Mr. A I said, uh, thanks."

The guy frowned; a troubled look passed over his face. "Well…Assasi dint 'xactly have nutin' to do with it, it just…happened. Word goes that giant button man knocked him off his ass wit'out a word. Giant kept punching 'til…it sounded like hittin' a melon wit a hammer." The man shook his head. "Only gettin' him a week in the box, can y'believe it? Wonder who's greasin' his way…." 

After A's man left, Dean mulled over what he'd said…must have been one hell of a circus to rattle an old foot soldier like that. Carter ending up being the rat on him didn’t surprise Dean much, but the giant beating Carter's ass into hamburger…well, that worried Dean a lot.

 _The giant…_ Dean hadn’t seen him since that day in the laundry. Everyone was keeping out of his orbit; Assasi's men, even Big Moe's, were giving him a wide berth. The cons all gossiped about the man like fuckin' school girls. Dean heard a lot of dirt, but who knew what the real skinny was— _the guy was a button man, blooded since short pants—he was a Russian or maybe a Polack, an anarchist, a mad bomber—he killed for fun, he killed his family—he was a Satanist—_

Lots of gossip made the rounds, but no solid info. Dean shook his head. His cellie had been an idiot but Dean sure hadn't figured he was that much an idiot, poking the bear like that. Crazy thing to do. 

Dean took a deep breath and dropped back to the bed, sniffing at the letter in his hand. Well, for the foreseeable future, he was alone…he snuck his hand into the waist of his pants, tickling himself a little, coaxing the squirmy, hot feeling to build up in him. He inhaled, deeper, and the cologne Sam favored filled his nose. Nice not to smell laundry soap and bleach. Nice to smell a little bit of home…his dick plumped up, thinking about foxy eyes and a sweet, candy pink mouth bowed in a mischievous smile.

* * * *

The noise in the dining hall usually drove Dean a little crazy—the sound of metal trays hitting metal tables, the constant yapping all around him…he'd give just about anything to have a little peace and quiet, some normal damn kinda mealtime instead of this. Just as he was thinking that, the noise level dropped noticeably for a minute, until suddenly it rose even higher. The guy next to him nudged Dean hard. "Z'at guy, the French guy."

"Thought he was Russian?" Dean heard from his left side.

The guy on his right leaned forward, spoke down the table, "Naw, he's one a dem bean-eaters. Heard him speaking Spanish." 

The mook on the other side of that one snorted. _"Italian, asshole._ He's prolly one a Assasi's guys, damn dagos."

Dean bristled—Assasi had been the only one who cared, back when his Irish family didn’t give a shit about them—when they'd iced his old man like he was garbage. "Don’t fucking say dago, you mick."

"Fuck ya-ya-ya—" the guy stammered into silence, a silence that had weight and presence and hung over the whole table like a wet, wool blanket.

Dean felt it, weight, heat, _danger_ behind him. He swallowed hard, made his face a blank, and turned, looked…up an up and up…of course it was him. The Giant. He loomed up behind Dean, and chuckled. It didn't sound in the least friendly. 

"Sure, I'm Italian—if you like. You like Italians, right?" 

His voice shimmied down Dean's spine and lodged in his gut. Dean's hands clenched around the tableware so fiercely it felt like they were cutting into his palms—he knew, even without looking up, the comment was directed at him. The guy knew who he was, knew of Assasi, knew…probably _everything_ about Dean's place in the gang. The giant chuckled again and moved past their table. Dean felt that queasy shiver grip him again—like a goose had walked on his damn grave.

* * * *

The next morning, the screw unlocked Dean's cell, and the giant stood there, blocking out the glare of the ever present florescent lights. His face was in shadow, he held only a small pile of belongings in his hand. No way to gage what was going on in that brain of his; no way to tell what he was feeling about being Dean's new cellmate. Dean knew he'd find out soon enough. He just hoped it wasn't going to fuck him up.

"Wake the hell up, Winchester. Meetcha new roommate. Say hi ta Sally," the screw snickered. "Play nice girls—no killin' each other, y'hear?"

* * * *

_Dear Sam,_

_Hello, baby brother. How are you? How is school treating you? College is not the same as school, I am sure? It is more work I bet, but you should be doing well, what with your giant brain and all._

_Listen, please see if Louie can take some pictures and get A to send them in. I miss you a lot. I miss your smiling mug, and I really miss your damn laugh but as I cannot get that, maybe I can get the other. Miss giving you hugs. You must be some taller now, hey? It will be hard to hug you, I am sure. I might have to knock you on your knees to reach. Will that bother you? No, I know that you are laughing._

_So, do you have any special friends? Tell me if you do. I hope you are being careful and safeguarding your heart. I do not want it getting broke. I could not stand that. Is our place all right? I worry about you being there alone._

_Write me more letters. I read and read the ones you sent me, Hell, I can recite them all from memory. Too bad I could not do that in school. You are laughing again, I bet._

_I have a new cell mate. He is an Italian, big guy, bigger even than me. He is an odd duck. He hardly ever speaks, he is as quiet as a mouse and reads just like you do. He goes by Salvatore Scutti. I don’t know if Mr. A put him here or not. No one is talking, so I can’t get a read on it. Maybe Louie knows?_

_Please Sammy do not forget those pictures, tell Louie he better be looking out for you good or I'll have something to say about that when I get out._

_I love you,_

_Dean, your big brother._

* * * *

_Dear Big Brother,_

_I'm glad that my letters make you happy. I wish that I didn't have to write you. I wish that you were right here with me, watching over me like you always have, all our lives._

_College is different, but I am not. I still need you looking out for me. I still need your hugs from time to time. I don't have any special friends, because none of the people I've met could ever compare to you. So you needn't worry about my heart, I promise it's perfectly safe._

_Watch out for your cellmate. People who are very quiet aren’t necessarily safe. No one knows a Salvatore Scutti, they know no Scuttis at all._

_Louie will have pictures coming to you soon. Be patient and concentrate on watching out for yourself, for me._

_Sam_

[ ](http://pics.livejournal.com/roxymissrose/pic/000caq31/)

Dean kept his back to the fence, his face pointed towards the sky, just fucking…breathing. The chill air raking across the yard was a godsend—it was just good to be off the block, have some sun on him. And it was a relief taking a break from his goddamn cellie.

He shrugged his shoulders, shaking off the skin-crawling feeling he got when he thought of the man. He'd swear his cellmate's eyes were on him all the time—could feel them practically digging a pit between his shoulder blades. The goon didn’t even pretend he wasn't staring. The sonofabitch would give him the eye when Dean caught him out; toss him that snake's smiles. Fuckin' Salvatore Scutti. 

Salvatore in his living space made Dean's world feel like it'd shrunk to palm-size. With Salvatore crowdin' up the cell, there was no air to breathe. The bastard knew it, too—watched Dean struggle to breathe and laughed to himself. Maybe it didn’t show to most, but Dean could read a guy as well as Louie, and he knew—this bastard was grinning at him behind his face. 

Dean didn't trust him. Hell— _trust_ him? Salvatore scared him _shitless._ That junkyard-dog look in those yellow-green eyes, coming out around the corners of a dead-blank stare. The way he'd smile at Dean when he walked into the cell, like he could smell his fear, despite Dean's swagger….

It drove Dean right 'round the bend, that he couldn't even lay a finger on why he was so, so…topsy-turvy, so fuckin'…. _wrong_ around the guy. Because as far as he could tell, and as far as the rest of the block was concerned, looked like the guy saved his ass. Probably his life. No one would tell him for sure, but Dean pinned Salvatore as the guy who called the guards and the boss, who'd beat those rats until they were peeping at St. Pete's gates, same as Dean the first time they'd gone at him. 

_Everyone_ agreed on who'd had sunk a long, skinny shiv between Fat Mike's chins and left him head down in the can bleeding out like the pig he was, even though there was nothing the screws could pin on Scutti.

Dean knew too, if it was Salvatore saved him like he figured, he was in deeper hot water than he'd ever been. He sighed, the bench creaking under him as he shifted. He was fifty/fifty sure that he wasn't going to buy it any time soon, not with _that_ look he'd get from Scutti when he wasn't laughing at him. Dean sure as hell knew that look, and like Assisi always said, forewarned was forearmed. 

Salvatore was playing his little game, whatever it was and seemed like he was having fun. Just—fuck. Dean shivered, pulled his collar up and hunched down into his jacket. Nothing worse than having to _wait_ for the other show to drop.

* * * *

The lights went out; the hall lights dimmed a bit. The screws were in the hall, yelling "Lights out" up and down the block, banging a good night tattoo on the bars. Their batons ran _tok-tok-tok_ down the length of the hall before fading out. When the last echo died, Salvatore turned to Dean with a cold smirk twisting his weirdly delicate mouth. He flowed off his bed and yanked Dean's blanket off of him and tossed it on the floor. "Hang this over the bars."

"What—no!" Dean shot upright, almost toppling off his bed. Salvatore's eyes raked over him, his gaze burning through Dean's threadbare union suit. Dean glared back, forcing himself not to cower behind his hands like a girl with her skirts up.

Salvatore just grinned wider and jerked his head towards the bars. He folded his arms over a wide chest, and set his feet. "Go on," he said. "I'm waiting."

Dean couldn't help but notice the swing of an impressive dick behind the thin material of Scutti's own union suit, he was mad at himself for noticing. "I said no."

"Hang it, or I break your wrists. You know how long that'll take to heal? You know how fucked up they’ll be? Hard to be a trigger man when you can't lift anything heavier than a itty-bitty, ol' derringer."

Dean shuddered, his blood feeling like sludgy ice in his veins. He judged the look in Salvatore's eyes, the side-ways smirk—the way his head tilted slightly, like he was waiting for the punch-line to a joke. His china-doll eyes shifted, went from flat and dead, to hot and wide awake….

He hadn't meant to, but Dean found himself grabbing up the blanket. His hands shook as he looped the corners around the bars and pulled them tight. Fuck, he might as well be tying a noose around his own stupid neck. The screws wouldn’t be back for a few hours…no guards around meant that Dean could only hope to come out the other side of this in something like one piece.

Salvatore was suddenly behind him, long fingers clamped on Dean's shoulder like a vise. "You know you belong to me now." 

"Fuck yourself," Dean snarled and shook—or tried to shake—the man's hand off. "Leggo, damn it."

"I don't think you get this…you're _mine,_ I paid for you in blood and now, I get you. You think I saved your ass because I'm a nice guy? A nice guy is the last thing I am."

Dean struggled desperately now, his breath coming fast, shallow. Not again, not happening again, he couldn't—

Without warning, Salvatore swung his fist into Dean's face. Dean's head flew back, striking the bars hard. The pain blew up inside him like a roman candle going off in his face. He tipped, sliding sideways until his knees hit the floor. 

Salvatore left him at the bars, went and sat back on the bed—Dean's. He popped the buttons on his the lower half of his union suit and pulled his dick out in a business-like way. Salvatore looked bored, like this didn’t mean much of anything, except for the way his dick was jerking awake under his palm. 

Dean blinked, blinked again. He bit down on his lip to keep his yap shut. The guy was a giant all over. His dick was big, thick around, and—Dean blinked, surprised—cut, like a Jew. Salvatore watched Dean watching, one big hand smoothing the thick length against his thigh, thumb working around the head, smearing slick around the naked crown. 

Dean lifted his eyes to Salvatore's. There was something in them almost gleeful, almost— _almost_ warm. Those oddly delicate lips spread into a smile that seemed familiar in a disturbing way…Dean shuddered when he realized this Salvatore goon had dimples, deep dimples framing his smile…just like Sam's. 

Salvatore held his fully erect dick in one hand and gestured Dean forward with the other. "Come on, boy, get to it. Time's wasting." 

"I'm not a boy—"

"Oh you are, right now you are," Salvatore chuckled. "You're going to be _my_ boy, Dean. And you'll like it."

"Fuck you, I'll never—" Dean shuddered with rage when Scutti just laughed.

"Never what? They all know what's going on here, what with the blanket and all." He watched Dean for a bit. A small, half-smile bracketed by those damn dimples made him look….friendly. Curious. His eyes looked strangely…all there for once. Alive, not. Not cruel, not the way Dean expected. "If it helps, I just want you to suck my dick…who knows, you might even like it."

Dean growled, even angrier when the giant kept smiling. He wobbled over to the bed, dropped awkwardly to his knees. Balled his fists, and rested them on Salvatore's knees when he couldn’t figure out what else to do with them. He opened, reluctantly, and Salvatore fed his dick into his mouth, hips hitching like he just couldn't keep still, driving his dick deep. Dean gulped, instinctively fighting for breath—

"Shit—" Salvatore hissed, let out a faint, somewhat pleased sound that sent a startling, warm pulse through him, and however much Dean didn't want it, thickened his dick.

It was…not as completely horrible as he'd dreaded. He'd expected being forced to do this would break him more. Maybe he was that worthless, that much a whore, that it didn't. He tried not to notice the weight, the warmth. How smooth and satiny the skin felt on his tongue, how it tasted: a little salty, a faint hint of soap and clean skin and sweat.

Dean gulped down the spit and precome rapidly filling his mouth, threatening to choke him. Swallowing forced his tongue to slide against Salvatore's dick, pressing it against the roof of his mouth; Salvatore made that noise again, louder this time. His hands—great, thick-knuckled things—came up to trap Dean's cheeks. Dean waited for Salvatore to slam his head down, but he just held them there. Not demanding, not hurting…it didn't hurt, and that was about all it took for instinct, animal need, to kick in and make Dean lean into the touch. 

The last time someone laid their hands on him without wanting to hurt him was…Dean tried to shut down that train of thought. The guy he was blowing now was a killer through and through, and Dean wasn't stupid. In the long run, this was only about hurt. Sooner than later, this…this whoever, whatever he was, was gonna mine payment right outta his skin, but right now, god, he was too desperate to care.

"Suck," Salvatore ordered, pumping his hips, his dick sliding in deeper. Dean winced and tried to relax his throat. Salvatore curled his hands over Dean's head, fingers sinking into his hair. Dean winced, waiting for him to shove in deep and choke him, but Salvatore just rested his hands there and let Dean get accustomed to the thick, long dick in his mouth. Dean shivered under Salvatore's hold. 

He was afraid, waiting for the guy to show his hand, but…it kept being oddly, almost…gentle. 

"Sonofabitch, you're so fucking good for me…" Salvatore finally began behaving more like Dean had expected, shoving his dick in, deeper on each stroke. Salvatore reached down and grabbed one of Dean's hands, pressed Dean's fingers around his dick, squeezing them until Dean got the idea to stroke what didn't fit in his mouth. Dean did, he jerked what he couldn’t swallow, and let the rest slide down his throat, fighting through the first panicky loss of breath until he got it under control.

Salvatore groaned, "When I come, damn it, swallow, you hear me? Fuck, you love it, don’t you, sure you do, you love drinking it down, rubbing my dick all over your face, fuck I need this, need this—"

Salvatore shuddered, and then hot, slick, spunk filled Dean's mouth, more than he could swallow, what he couldn't leaked around his lips, dripped off his chin. 

Salvatore looked down at him, open mouthed, before his eyes narrowed. "Shit, you fuckin' slut," he hissed and Dean felt the dick he was trying to breath around lurch, give one more blurt of come before Salvatore pulled out. When he just looked at him silently, Dean took the chance to wipe at his chin, the mess smeared around his mouth, right down his neck. Salvatore was wet, balls dripping. He rubbed smears of come and spit into his skin, smiling faintly down at Dean. 

Dean blinked the tears out of his eyes, shook off the feeling of being some place…not there. Glared at Salvatore when he asked Dean if he was okay. "You _choked_ me," Dean said, glaring at him, daring Salvatore to suggest otherwise. 

Salvatore laughed softly. "Right. There it is, there's that challenge in your eyes, that's the look I was waiting for. C'mere—I said _come_ here." He grabbed a handful of Dean's hair and yanked him close, pressed an open mouthed kiss on him, kissed and kissed until the taste of his come was gone. He moaned like Dean was the best fucking thing he'd ever tasted, then…he reached down and gripped Dean's dick. Half-hard instantly went to fully hard. 

Dean gasped, tried to get Salvatore's grip off of him. "No, no—"

Salvatore paid him no mind, didn't even bother to argue. He gripped Dean's hands in one of his, pinning them against his thigh. Not even bothering to unbutton Dean's sweat-damp union suit, he wrapped as much of his hand as he could around Dean's dick, stroked and squeezed him. The heat of Salvatore's hand, the strangeness of being touched by someone else, the tightly controlled strength he could feel in each shift of his hand…it felt good, much as he wished it didn’t, it felt too fucking _good._

Salvatore leaned close, put his mouth against Dean's ear. "Go ahead; let it go, I've got you—"

"Got me? Whe—" a particular tight twist sent a shudder right down to Dean's toes, his balls drew tight. Salvatore's thumb rubbed hard, right over the tip of his dick, and Dean didn't so much as let go, as he was forced to—the thin material of his underclothes sagging under the weight of spunk, holding it hot and wet against his skin.

Something significant broke inside of Dean. He fought the feeling, but it…whatever Salvatore had done to him…chipped off huge chunks of himself. Not even Fat Mike, may he burn forever in hell, had bent him like this. This felt like it was going to break him, scar him inside and out. He was worthless, garbage, undeserving of his Sam. He'd never be able to look at Sam again without remembering…being _unfaithful._

The man rolled him onto his bunk and ripped the blanket off the bars. He tossed it over Dean, not even letting him shuck off his soiled underwear. Turned to the small metal sink, washed himself, pissed, flushed, all little everyday things that hit Dean like nails sinking into his flesh.

Salvatore sank to the floor near the bars, looking rested and pleased, the fucking sonofabitch. He fished a Pall Mall out of a pack stowed under his bed. He lit it, the snick of the Zippo sounding like a thunder clap in the silence. Seconds later, Dean found himself becoming aware of the block again. Coughing, the creak of metal springs, mumbling and crying—the sounds of the cellblock.

And Salvatore. Smoking, watching Dean shuddering in his blanket. 

"Whose boy are you?" he asked, and when Dean replied, "Fuck you", Salvatore chuckled, eyes on Dean as he smoked his cigarette to the end.


End file.
